


Take My Breath Away

by luvxena



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consensual, Dubious Consent, F/M, Masturbation, Non Consensual, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 117,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvxena/pseuds/luvxena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joffrey forces his uncle the Kingslayer and Sansa to have sex. The whole act then brings far reaching ramifications.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU drabble that I came up with. Sandor still left King’s Landing on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, leaving Sansa behind, and Joffrey still married Margaery Tyrell. But instead of being murdered by the Tyrells, Joffrey still lives and takes our poor Sansa to bed almost regularly as his “mistress.” She's also not married to Tyrion.
> 
> Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, never meets Brienne of Tarth so he never loses his hand. However he still goes to the Riverlands and is still estranged from his twin sister Queen Cersei. Not long after he comes back to King’s Landing, he is thrown into an unwanted situation with Sansa by his little shit of a ~~son~~ nephew Joffrey.
> 
> The characters' physical descriptions for this story are based on the actors from HBO's _Game of Thrones_
> 
> This story was inspired by [wildsky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wildsky/pseuds/wildsky)'s story [Always Find Me Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/452467?view_adult=true). It has not been Beta'd and English is my second language. Apologies for any grammatical or spelling mistakes that may have crept in.

**Sansa**

Sansa was once again ushered into Joffrey’s kingly, opulent room. For the past six months, Joff had taken her almost every week since he had married the beautiful Margaery Tyrell, using Sansa with no more respect than he would a common whore.

At first, Sansa had cried almost every single time he’d tried to fuck her, but then Joff would beat her while she screamed, leaving ugly bruises and welts all over her body. Then, one day, she stopped crying, and she started pretending she was getting pleasure from Joffrey’s gruntings and slobbering efforts.

Joff was so stupid and so full of himself that he believed that her every moans and her every whimpers while he was trying to rut on top of her were genuine. It still didn’t stop him from hitting her once in a while whenever he was angry, and Joffrey was often angry.

Tonight wasn’t going to be any different. Sansa knew what was coming and she was ready to play her role since her life more than likely depended on it. _Please, please don’t let Joffrey be in a bad mood again,_ she prayed to the old gods and the new.

When she was ushered into Joff’s room, she saw that his uncle, the Kingslayer, was with the king, and that Joff was actually well on his way to being quite drunk.

Sansa’s stomach lurched abruptly. Joff would surely beat her now, as he was wont to do every time he was drunk because he couldn’t get his cock hard enough to fuck her.

Ser Jaime Lannister, looking as striking as ever in his white enameled Kingsguard armor and his snowy white cloak, looked at her with something akin to pity in his eyes. Queen Cersei’s handsome twin brother had returned to King’s Landing about two weeks prior after being away for months in the Riverlands, and he’d quickly learned of his nephew’s treatment of Sansa. She knew the Lion had tried to talk Joff out of fucking her, citing his duty to be faithful to his queen and to get her with child as soon as possible so that the kingdom would have an heir but Joff had never listened to anybody, so he’d scoffed at his uncle’s remarks, even going as far as threatening him with a beheading by Ser Ilyn Payne if he kept bothering him with this.

Sansa advanced to the middle of the large, warm room, barely looking at the Kingslayer, her face a blank, emotionless mask. She felt as dead inside as she probably looked it on the outside. She knew she had dark circles running under her eyes and that her white skin was paler than usual but Joff didn’t see any of that: or if he did, he certainly didn’t care.

“You called for me, Your Grace,” Sansa said evenly, her voice soft, no emotion in her tone. Her eyes were looking fixedly at an invisible point over Joffrey’s blond head.

“I have Sansa,” Joff slurred heavily.

She shuddered.

The Kingslayer looked uncomfortable and he was almost dancing on his feet. “I will leave you now, Your Grace,” she heard Ser Jaime say.

“Not so fast, uncle,” Joff said loudly.

_Oh no, will he make his own uncle the Kingslayer watch_? Sansa’s stomach lurched dangerously and she almost felt sick, bile rising at the back of her throat. _I can’t be sick or Joff will beat me._ She forced herself to remain calm.

“Your Grace?” Ser Jaime asked, suspicion thick in his voice. Sansa’s gaze flickered to the usually cocky man. Well, there was nothing cocky nor assured about him now as he stared at his nephew. _Some say he’s Joff’s father_ , Sansa thought. Looking at the both of them together, she had no problem believing the rumors. Joffrey Baratheon looked nothing like his dead father, King Robert, who had been black of beard and of hair. But he looked very much like Ser Jaime.

Joffrey sat himself in his ornate high backed chair and took the crossbow waiting on the nearby small table in hand. There was also a flagon of wine, and she saw Joff take a large swig out of it.

“You’re going to stay here, uncle, because you’re going to fuck _her_ ,” Joff slurred heavily again as he jutted his chin towards her. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat but she tried to stand still all the while her heart was beating wildly in her chest, her hands trembling. She prayed Joffrey wouldn’t notice how anxious she was.

“What?” said the Kingslayer, disbelief showing plainly in his tone and on his golden face. “You little shit,” he almost hissed, “I’m not your puppet to use as you will you ungrateful brat. And I certainly won’t be fucking Ned Stark’s daughter.”

Sansa had never seen the Kingslayer angry. Ever. But he was angry now. She saw his clean shaven jaw clench hard and his hands close in tight fists beside his taut body. She even saw his hand going subtly for the sword at his hips and for a moment she held her breath. A few tense seconds passed then Ser Jaime’s hand slowly went back to his side. Of course, Joffrey had been completely oblivious to all this.

“Yes you are, uncle. You’re the Lord Commander of my Kingsguard and your job, uncle, is to obey me. And I order you to fuck the Stark whore. _Now_.”

Joffrey struggled to put a quarrel in his crossbow but as soon as he did he pointed it in Sansa and his uncle’s direction.

Sansa saw Ser Jaime glare hard at Joff, but without a word, he started taking off his Kingsguard armor piece by piece, letting each one clang loudly to the floor.

“Take your clothes off too,” Joff ordered Sansa.

With trembling hands, Sansa did as he bid her; unlacing her lilac silk dress at the front and pushing it off her shoulders. Her hair was styled in the court’s fashion so it couldn’t hide her nakedness. Then she slowly took off her bodice, shift and smallclothes, stepping out of them nervously. She was now standing naked as her nameday in front of Joff and Ser Jaime who was now down to the last pieces of his armor and she was shaking, her nerves nearly unraveling her as tears threatened to roll softly down her red cheeks.

Her hands went to hide her lady parts but Joff shouted at her “take your hands off! I want to see you naked. I like seeing you naked, traitor whore.”

With a will she didn’t know she possessed (but mostly out of pure survival instinct) Sansa lowered her hands and arms to her sides, standing naked in the middle of the room for Joff’s eyes to slowly rake over her body, making her inwardly shudder again.

Then she noticed that Ser Jaime was also looking at her, but that his blue eyes were unseeing. She silently thanked him for the courtesy he was showing her.

“Faster uncle! Sansa, help him,” Joff jabbed, his tone impatient.

Sansa hurried to help the Kingslayer get rid of the last pieces of armor still covering his body and he held her hands when he was at last down to his shift and smallclothes, his eyes telling her silently that he would do the rest himself.

Sansa lowered her eyes demurely to the ground as Jaime quickly divested himself of his last pieces of clothing. Sansa couldn’t help but stare at a simmering Jaime Lannister sideways and stare through her lashes at his muscular body.

She noticed the way the play of light from the roaring fire in the fireplace underlined each and every muscle in his tall frame. _He really is beautiful,_ she thought and she saw that his skin was crisscrossed by a few silvery scars. Then her eyes fell to his groin and saw that his manhood was half-hard, despite the tense situation he was in. He was obviously livid at being coerced to fuck her against his will by his own . . . _son_. She blushed when she noticed that it was long and rather large. It was certainly much bigger than Joffrey’s.

“I want you two to do it on the bed now, do as I tell you,” Joff said sharply. “Sansa, lie in front of me on the edge of the bed. I want you to open your legs wide. I want to see your traitor whore’s cunt.”

Sansa held back a sob and did as Joff told her, while his crossbow was aimed squarely at her. She climbed onto the large, feathered bed and laid back on it, spreading her legs wide open, her heels digging on the edge of the soft mattress. Joffrey and the Kingslayer now had an unimpeachable view of her womanhood and the soft red curls crowning it – to her endless shame. Sansa’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, unseeing. Dead.

Then she heard Joffrey say “Good, good. Now, uncle, I want you to bury your face between her legs and eat her cunt out. Yes, I think I’m going to like that.”

“You little shit,” Jaime uttered.

Sansa then heard Joff mumble drunkenly. “Careful now, uncle, or I may just shoot you dead now. I know my mother would be devastated but I don’t care, really.”

Next thing she knew, Sansa felt the Kingslayer’s hot breath ghosting over her womanhood as he kneeled on the floor between her legs. His warm, calloused hands slowly made their way up her thighs towards her hips and Sansa shuddered despite herself; but she didn’t know if it was a pleasant or an unpleasant shudder. It felt strange to her . . . she never had someone’s mouth on her before, Joff only liked to fuck and hit her.

Then, slowly, Ser Jaime closed his mouth in over her womanhood. Sansa’s hips suddenly jumped at the feeling and she bit her lower lip to stifle what she feared would be a moan threatening to escape her lips. It wouldn’t do for Joff to think she was going to enjoy this now, would it? Even though he always called her a stupid girl, she wasn’t, and she very well knew that he was doing this to humiliate her. But she did not know why he was doing this to the Kingslayer . . . his uncle and the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard. Perhaps Ser Jaime had angered Joff in some way?

She then felt Ser Jaime draw reassuring light circles on the side of her hips to soothe her and she felt him start lapping at her lady parts, the flat of his tongue teasing at her entrance wetly before going up to the little pearl of flesh above her folds. There he teased at her nub with the tip of his tongue and she felt it go hard under Jaime’s ministrations, bringing her something she’d never felt before: pleasure. Sansa had to stifle another moan wanting to escape her throat by biting on her lower lip so hard she drew blood.

Jaime kept on lapping and teasing at her nub with his tongue while Joffrey was urging his uncle on.  “Does the bitch like it uncle? Is she getting wet for you?” she heard him chuckle, then she heard him take another swig of the wine and then she heard . . . oh no! Joff was bringing himself off! She recognized the sounds he made when he was fucking into his hand. _Keep on drinking Joffrey, just keep on drinking, then maybe you’ll just pass out from too much wine and we can all forget this is even happening._

She heard Jaime swear loudly before he resumed eating her up.

Sansa’s hands were now grasping at the bed covers tightly as she tried to keep her legs wide opened when they were trembling under the strain of remaining open. But she did feel herself getting wet, the Kingslayer’s mouth on her was bringing her a kind of pleasure she had never felt before and try as she might, her hips were now bucking against his mouth, against the onslaught of his warm tongue.

She realized Jaime had understood that he was now bringing her pleasure and she suddenly heard him moan almost imperceptibly against her womanhood, the sound vibrating over her lady parts. Sansa prayed they were too far away from Joff for him to even have heard that.

Then she heard Joffrey slur even more heavily than before. “That’s enough for now, uncle . . . I want you to fuck the Stark whore now. But-but I want to see you both. So lie across the bed the other way.”

Sansa saw Jaime turn his head around, probably giving another hard glare at Joffrey. But even though this one was getting drunker and drunker, he was still aiming his crossbow at them and his drunken eyes were still locked on them intently. He could very well shoot them at any moment. Plus, he was so drunk there was also the danger that he could shoot them accidentally.

Sansa quickly turned around on the bed so she was now lying horizontally across it and Jaime slowly rose to his feet. As he did so, Sansa now saw his fully erect manhood jutting from the courser, darker blond hair of his groin and her eyes opened wide at the sight of it. The hair there was a shade darker than the fair hair that covered his body and his hard member was very long and large enough to impress. _He must be at least twice Joffrey’s size_ , she thought fleetingly and suddenly Sansa was actually looking forward to having Ser Jaime enter her, making her blush furiously at the unbidden thought and her womanhood start to ache.  She turned her head away from the Kingslayer almost in shame.

Dimly, she became aware that Ser Jaime was climbing onto the bed to get on top of her. Lowering himself over her, pressing them both heavily onto the mattress, he gently nudged her legs opened with his knees.

“I’m sorry Lady Stark,” she heard him say low in her ear. Sansa looked back at him and still saw pity and even . . . was it desire in his deep, blue-grey eyes? Since he was so close to her, she could see that his fair hair was shot through with a little bit of grey and even a few stray strands of white hair. Sansa knew Ser Jaime was estranged from his twin sister, the queen, perhaps this was weighing heavily on him? She also saw that he had a few, very small fine lines around his eyes. She suddenly felt the urge to cup his face with her hand and was about to do so when Jaime clamped his hand over hers, shooting her a warning look that told her not to move so as not to anger Joff.

She swallowed hard and looked at him intently, hoping he would see that she was thanking him silently.

“What are you waiting for, uncle? I told you to-to fuck the traitor whore. Do you want me to shoot you now?” Joffrey’s voice was slurring even more than before and Sansa hoped it wouldn’t be long before he would fall into a drunken sleep. She also prayed fervently to the old gods and the new that Joff wouldn’t accidentally shoot them.

With another “sorry” escaping Jaime Lannister’s lips now brushing close to her ear – sending goose bumps down her spine – Sansa felt him steady his hard manhood against her lady parts. Her heart was beating like a drum in her chest at the anticipation of _him_ entering _her_ ; something she had never felt before. Everytime Joff had . . . _fucked_ her (when he could get it hard enough to do so) Sansa had only felt dread, and shame, and horror and she had often felt completely sick.

Sansa closed her eyes and in one swift, but rather pleasurable slow stroke, she felt Jaime enter her. Then he laid his arms on each side of her head as his body pressed heavily over hers, sinking them both into the soft feather mattress.

Sansa’s eyes flicked opened at the incredible sensation she was experiencing with the Kingslayer’s hard manhood suddenly filling her up and almost sobbed before Jaime quickly closed his mouth over hers to shut her up.

Sansa tasted herself on his mouth, a strange, almost tangy taste, as his tongue darted into her mouth to kiss her. At first it was a light kiss, but Sansa responded by rolling her tongue back against his and almost hesitantly he slowly deepened the kiss, making the both of them moan lowly into each other’s mouths.

Then, slowly, Jaime started to move his hips against her.

Sansa moaned into the Kingslayer’s mouth as he brought his hips against hers roughly, trying to show Joff that he wasn’t enjoying himself and that he couldn’t care less about the woman lying underneath him.

“Do you like that Sansa?” Joffrey slurred again, his words now almost incomprehensible. “Do you like . . . being fucked . . . by my uncle?”

She could still hear him fucking himself into his hand, making the bile rise again at the back of her throat.

“Answer me, whore!” he half-shouted, half-slurred.

Sansa didn’t know what to answer. Was she supposed to say yes, that she was enjoying it? Or say no, that she wasn’t?

Then she said, very carefully, turning her head towards him – all the while the Kingslayer had stopped moving inside her – seeing Joff slumped against his high backed chair, stroking his little cock roughly, his eyes half-closed whilst he looked at them in a drunken stupor. “I cannot enjoy it Your Grace since Your Grace is the only one who makes me peak.”

Joff gave her a nasty little smirk. “Good answer, Stark whore,” he grunted. Then he swore and she saw him spill himself in his hands and Sansa felt sick again.

After wiping his hand on his doublet and tucking his flaccid manhood back into his breeches, he drunkenly raised his crossbow at them again. “Who told you to . . . to stop fucking the whore . . . uncle?” His voice drawled once more as he took another large swallow of his wine.

Sansa kept praying Joff would soon fall into a drunken stupor, but in the meanwhile Ser Jaime resumed fucking into her.

Sansa’s eyes closed shut for some long minutes as she felt his hard manhood sliding in and out of her slowly. She knew he was also waiting for his nephew to fall asleep. But then she opened her eyes again and her gaze locked onto the Kingslayer’s blue eyes as his hips moved slowly against her. 

He was looking right back at her, and she thought she could see turmoil in his eyes. She thought she saw shame too, but she also saw something else. Was it . . . need? Pleasure? Sansa couldn’t tell. She had no experience in this matter whatsoever. She always avoided Joff’s eyes when he was taking her because she knew they were filled with malice and cruelty as well as his own twisted idea of pleasure.

Sansa still looked intently at Jaime while he was still fucking into her slowly.

“Fuck her . . . fuck her harder . . . _uncle_.” She heard Joff slur again, this time he had a very hard time wrapping his tongue around his words.

Not long now, she thought, as the Kingslayer’s hips started to snap against her harder, faster.

Suddenly, Sansa felt a hot stab of pleasure course though her body, taking her completely by surprise since she’d never experienced that either before. She moaned low in her throat so that Joff wouldn’t hear her and she instinctively raised her legs higher up against her body to have Jaime enter her more deeply.

Jaime shot her a look that was unexpectedly filled with lust but he strove to be as silent as he could while his hips jerked harder into her.

Sansa could feel pleasure suddenly engulf her, and while she wanted to moan loudly, she knew she couldn’t.

Finally, she heard a loud clang on the floor and both she and Jaime turned their heads abruptly towards the sound and to their complete and utter relief, they saw that Joffrey had dropped the crossbow to the floor and that he was now lying limply in his ornate high backed chair, dozing off soundly thanks to the copious amount of wine he had drunk.

Surprisingly, Sansa suddenly felt a little sorry. _Now Ser Jaime will stop fucking me_ , she thought strangely.

“Lady Sansa,” Jaime suddenly said against her, breathless. “We can stop now . . . I’m really sorry about this.” He was telling her that he was sorry, that they could stop this, but his hips were still moving inside of her seemingly of their own accord.

Sansa then moaned out loud at the feeling and she jerked her hips hard against him.

“No, please,” she almost begged, making her blush furiously against him.

Jaime gave her a look that was filled with disbelief, surprise, and then lust.

Without another word, he closed his mouth over hers and started kissing her deeply. Sansa responded first with timidity, then fiercely to his kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck.

She then felt his left arm reach for her leg, caressing it with warm calloused fingers before he brought it over his waist. Then he did the same thing with her other leg so she found both of her legs wrapped around Jaime’s lean waist, her heels now digging into the small of his back, feeling his hips start to snap hard against her.

Sansa was suddenly overwhelmed by an all-encompassing whirlwind of pleasure which she was experiencing for the first time in her life.

Leaving her needy mouth, Jaime’s lips then trailed light kisses across her jaw line before going slowly down her long neck, showering warm open-mouthed kisses across her collarbone and then down to her heaving breasts.

He slowly licked around one hard little nipple with his tongue, making her gasp in surprise and pleasure, before he closed his hot mouth around it, sucking and swirling his tongue over it wetly, making Sansa hiss at the new sensation. Then he moved to her other nipple, repeating the motion which ripped a loud moan from her lips.

The motion of his hips also changed. He switched the way he was fucking into her from an almost frenzied rhythm to a deeper, slower one, rolling his hips against her with each thrust of his hard manhood inside her. Jaime Lannister was a man of experience, even though the only woman he’d ever fucked before her (if rumors were true) was his own twin sister, Queen Cersei. He was certainly more adept at giving pleasure than Joffrey.

Dazedly, Sansa became aware that he was now actually making love to her instead of just fucking her. The movement of his hips almost becoming languorous, his mouth back over hers and kissing her deeply.

_He’s trying to make me forget Joffrey, that we’re doing this because of him,_ Sansa tought fleetingly. But she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she was feeling pure pleasure; even if it was coming from the Kingslayer moving between her legs.

Jaime started moaning loudly with every jerk of his hips and Sansa started doing the same. His manhood felt so incredibly good inside of her, so large, so filling, she didn’t want him to stop. So she kept urging him on with murmurs of “more, harder, and please” against his mouth. If there was one thing Sansa was, it was that she was a proper lady and she was used to chirping out her courtesies.

Then she felt him snake his right arm between them as his body was pressed flush against hers, her breasts getting some pleasurable friction against the hair on his hard, muscular chest.

Her hips jerked harder against him when she felt his fingers fluttering over her mound. After a few tries, he started rubbing her nub in sharp tight little circles while still fucking into her, making Sansa moan loudly at this new feeling which was now bringing her closer to the sweet edge of what she was hoping would finally be her first, sweet release.

No one had ever touched her there before but herself. And even then, she had never been able to reach a release because her mind kept taking her back to Joffrey. She had actually never peaked in her life.

But now . . . now she was feeling this incredible pressure building all over her womanhood.

“Do you want me to stop, Sansa,” she suddenly heard Jaime moan into her ear. He was still fucking into her, his hips still rolling against her. She knew he was asking because he wanted to make sure she really wanted this, wanted him, now.

“No, don’t stop, please,” she moaned. A lady never forgets her courtesies, and she wasn’t about to stop now with Ser Jaime Lannister on top of her who was now obviously taking his own pleasure between her legs – the thought suddenly flinging her higher into another level of arousal.

He moaned loud and clear and, taking his hand away from her nub, he started rolling his hips harder against her again.

This time Sansa knew she was close when she felt his hard manhood unexpectedly hitting something inside of her that felt so incredibly good she almost sobbed.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” she whimpered loudly.

“Oh Gods . . .  Sansa . . .” Jaime groaned and he increased the tempo. He was now fucking into her in earnest, his breath coming in hard and fast.

Sansa’s eyelids started fluttering wildly and she snaked her own arm between them and reached her hard little nub, which she started rubbing desperately while his right arm dragged her left arm over her head, pinning it against the bed.

Suddenly, something exploded from deep within her and she felt this huge wave of bliss expand from her nub, to the inside of her womanhood, and then outwardly to every part of her body and she moaned so loudly she feared Joff would wake, but then Jaime kissed her again and she felt his manhood suddenly pulse hard inside her as he moaned loudly into her mouth too.

Sansa’s head then abruptly turned to the right to try and bury her moans into the bed while her eyes were now closed shut, tears of pleasure streaming down the sides of her face while she felt Jaime’s head rest against her cheek as he almost hissed his pleasure, while he kept on snapping his hips against her, drawing out the intense feeling of bliss that had now overtaken their bodies while they were raked with the aftershocks of their climax.

After a few minutes, Jaime stilled over her and she could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest while hers was also thumping crazily. He slowly brought his lips against her neck, kissing her hammering pulse before he slowly rose from her, his softening cock slipping out of her womanhood, now swollen with pleasure, while she felt his seed leak slowly on the inside of her thighs.

She was dimly aware that he was now sitting by the side of the bed, and she saw him run his long fingers through his golden hair.

“Sansa . . .” he started, turning towards her.

Sansa reached out her hand towards him and laid it lightly over his forearm. “There’s nothing to be said, Ser Jaime,” she said sweetly. She was feeling thankful, grateful to him, for what he had done. And she tried to convey all of that with her eyes.

He realized this and said nothing. Slowly, he rose from the bed and went in search of a washbasin with a clean cloth to wash his seed off his body. When he was finished he rinsed the cloth in the cool water and brought it to her so she could also clean herself up. Sansa washed away Jaime’s seed from her thighs meticulously.

Then Jaime quickly dressed himself, whilst handing Sansa her clothes, not looking at her again. “Dress yourself, Lady Sansa, I will accompany you back to your bedchamber. Then I will have moon tea sent to you,” he said matter-of-factly, to Sansa’s disappointment.

What had she expected from the Kingslayer? A sudden declaration of love? He had come inside her and he had made her come for the first time in her life, but that didn’t mean he would now be her Florian. _Joffrey’s right. You’re a stupid girl. Don’t expect the Kingslayer to save you just because he was between your legs. You’re nothing to him but a pawn in the game of thrones, a prisoner for the Lions._

She grabbed her clothes and crumpled them almost hopelessly to her breast before she too quickly dressed herself. Now the Kingslayer was back in his clothes and clad once more in his entire Kingsguard armor. _He is a man used to dressing himself up without a squire_ , Sansa mused.

To Joffrey’s loud snores, Jaime ushered Sansa out of the king’s room. Ser Osmund Kettleblack was standing at attention outside Joff’s room and he eyed them suspiciously when they exited. “At ease Ser Osmund,” Jaime said, smiling thinly at the tall, dark haired knight of the Kingsguard. “Keep guarding the king’s room, he’s quite exhausted from fucking Lady Stark here,” he said calmly, almost snidely, making Sansa blush a deep red. Ser Osmund only bowed to his Lord Commander and went back to staring at an invisible point in front of him.

The Kingslayer did as he promised and accompanied Sansa back to her bedchamber. When they stood in front of her door he took her right hand in his warm calloused ones and brought her wrist to his lips almost hesitantly, kissing it softly.

The simple gesture sent another jolt of arousal coursing through Sansa’s body and she had the feeling that he felt it too because the look he gave her was suddenly deeply troubled again.

“Good night, Lady Stark,” he told her while his thumb brushed almost absent-mindedly over the bit of soft flesh on her wrist where he’d just pressed his warm lips over.

“Good night, Ser Jaime,” she answered back, blushing for all her worth, while her eyes timidly looked into his own.

For a heartbeat, she saw the Kingslayer hesitate, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know just _how_ to say it. But then the moment was broken and he gave her a flickering, courteous smile and slightly bowed before he turned on his heels and went swiftly down the steps to return to his duty – no doubt – whatever it might be.

Sansa just stood there, looking thoughtfully at the empty space where the Kingslayer had disappeared from view while she was rubbing the spot where his lips had touched her wrist. Her skin there felt all warm and tingly.

Sighing, she entered her bedchamber and locked the massive oak door behind her. Then she went to lie on her bed where she replayed the most pleasant memories of the night in her mind, feeling a warm, almost languorous throbbing pleasure return all over her womanhood.

Later that night, a maid brought her moon tea to drink.

The following evening Ser Jaime knocked at her door and as he swept into her room, ushering her in with him, dragging her into his arms and pressing his lips hungrily over hers, he took her breath away.


	2. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister knew it was wrong, that he shouldn't be going to Sansa Stark's bedchamber.

**Jaime**

Jaime knew it was wrong.

He knew he shouldn’t be heading towards Sansa Stark’s bedchamber. But the memory of the previous night kept haunting him.

He felt troubled and ashamed that his little fuck of a son had forced him to have sex with the girl, but it was that, or risk getting the both of them killed. Joff had been drunk and sullen and was ready to shoot them both with his crossbow if they didn’t do as he commanded.

At first, he’d told himself he wouldn’t enjoy it, wouldn’t give Joffrey the satisfaction. But despite it all, Jaime had hardened at the thought of fucking Ned Stark’s eldest daughter perhaps, he thought, because he’d never fucked any other woman in his entire life but his twin sister, Cersei.

Cersei, who’d been so much like him, his other half, his whole life, his love.

But he knew now it had all been a lie, that she’d fucked their cousin Lancel, was fucking Ser Osmund Kettleblack and probably his two brothers Osney and Oswald as well. For all he knew, she may be fucking the entire Kingsguard and more.

After all, that was what Tyrion told him. And deep down inside, Jaime believed it. So he’d mostly avoided her since his return from the Riverlands.

So when he’d found himself having to fuck the tall, beautiful Stark girl who was so unlike Cersei, the idea had shamefully excited him. Jaime had seen how scared she was, but he’d also noticed her reaction to him when he stood naked as his name day next to her. The way her clear blue eyes had widened, the way her beautiful lips had parted in want, even if she hadn’t realized it herself.

Jaime had told himself he would try to make the ordeal as pleasant as he could for the girl, considering the dire circumstances they were both in; so Jaime had taken it slow so as not to frighten her further. And to his complete surprise, her body reacted to what he was doing to her rather . . . pleasurably, and he’d found himself starting to enjoy it as well. _Despite_ the crossbow quarrel pointed squarely in their direction by an increasingly drunken Joffrey.

Jaime Lannister had never in his life thought he’d end up making love to another woman, but that’s what he did, and he felt like he’d cheated on Cersei despite everything _she’d_ done.

Jaime was slowly making his way to Maegor’s Holdfast from White Sword Tower, the white cloak over his Kingsguard armor billowing in the cool wind. He was going to talk to the Stark girl, tell her to forget all that had happened. It would be best for everyone.

As for Joffrey, he’d deal with him later. Jaime was now fuming when he thought about his son. A creature unfit to sit the Iron Throne. A monstrosity. Jaime’d killed the Mad King Aerys II and by the gods, if he had to kill that little shit of a whore son of his, he would – even though Jaime knew being a kinslayer was far worse in the eyes of the gods than being a Kingslayer. But Jaime Lannister no longer cared what men or even the gods thought of him. In fact, he had stopped caring a long time ago.

Jaime had been so deep in thought he was almost surprised when he found himself standing in front of the Stark girl’s bedchamber door. He hadn’t really thought everything through besides telling her to forget what had happened between them the night before but he hoped she would see the wisdom in this.

The back of his hand was pressed against the oaken door, ready to knock, but he stood there as if rooted to the spot.

He thought about the way he’d kissed her wrist last night instead of kissing her hand as would have been proper, and how it had sent a jolt of unexpected arousal coursing through his body again.

Clearing his throat, he knocked on the door while his eyes darted left and right to see if anyone was around. It wouldn’t do to be seen in front of Lady Stark’s door, so this had to be done quickly.

He heard light footsteps on the other side, then Jaime heard a pull at the lock before the door slightly opened.

Through the crack, Jaime saw clear blue eyes look at him suspiciously before he saw luscious pink lips part in surprise at seeing him, making him slightly harden in his breeches.

 _This isn’t going to go the way I planned it now, is it?_ He inwardly groaned.

“Ser Jaime,” came Sansa’s surprised gasp.

Jaime whispered urgently, “let me in, Sansa, I can’t stay here outside your door, wouldn’t do to be seen together.”

Sansa opened the door a little wider and Jaime swooped in, ushering her in with him.

Without actually thinking this through, again, and reacting solely on pure instinct, Jaime’s mouth covered Sansa’s. At first, it was more a press of his lips over hers but her mouth eagerly parted against him in a sigh and he tentatively darted his tongue inside her mouth.

_What do you think you're doing you bloody idiot? You came here to end this with the Stark girl. If Cersei finds out . . . Fuck Cersei, she betrayed you, you’re no longer hers and she, no longer yours. She can go fuck more of my men and the whole of Westeros in all the seven hells if that's what she's so keen on doing. I really don't give a rat's ass about her._

As if to convince himself, Jaime deepened the kiss while pressing Sansa to him. She yielded to his demanding mouth, to his fevered touch, her body bending to his and melting into him in a way that was new to him. Sansa was a tall girl, taller than Cersei, so Jaime didn’t have to bend as much to kiss her. His hands dug into the small of her back whilst her slender ones had wrapped themselves around his neck, having him press his lips to hers firmly.

After kissing her like this for what seemed to Jaime an eternity, he decided that he had to stop this before it went any further. But the cry of protest that escaped Sansa’s lips when he stopped kissing her and held her at arm's length sent some unexpected, delightful shivers up and down his spine.

“Sansa,” he began.

The Stark girl looked at him with eyes so blue he felt like he was drowning into the Narrow Sea. He’d never realized before now just how beautiful they were, how beautiful _she_ was, a woman grown and no child anymore. Her auburn hair was falling in a mad tumble all around her head, Sansa having it styled in the northern fashion instead of the court style.

She was looking at him eyes wide, her hands clenching together and going over her skirts to smooth invisible creases on her dress. She was wearing a pink gown in the court style. Jaime thought the color didn’t suit her as well as the blue ones . . . _What am I doing?_ He realized. Jaime shook his head almost in disbelief.

“My lady,” he continued, trying to chose his words carefully. “Last night we were both thrown into a situation not of our choosing.”

He saw that Sansa was looking at him intently but she was waiting for him to continue. Still, he could see the anguish, and – was it disappointment he was glimpsing in her eyes?

Looking around, he noticed the beautifully ornate bed, _seven hells no, that won't do_ , and then the high backed chair set in front of her night table.

Taking her hand he dragged her after him to the chair. “Please sit, Lady Sansa.”

She ignored the chair and stayed standing before him, her wonderful blue eyes still peering intently at him. He didn't know why, but Jaime felt like her gaze was piercing his soul. Then she told him, “Ser Jaime, whatever you want to say to me, please do so freely.”

She was worrying at her lower lip and the sight sent another jolt of arousal coursing through his body and he felt his cock twitch in his breeches. _Why in the Seven hells is the Stark girl making me react like this? Oh yes, you fucked her last night and you liked it you bloody idiot. I should never have come here. I should have stayed far away from Sansa Stark._ But here he was, and he had to see this through – _if_ only to be fair to her.

“I wanted to apologize for last night, my . . . nephew should never have done what he did. I will see to it that it never happens again, Lady Stark.”

“How?” Sansa's voice was barely above a whisper.

 _I'll kill the little fuck_ , was what Jaime wanted to say.

“I will try to get you home, Sansa.”

At this, Sansa's beautiful blue eyes seemed to bore through his very soul once more. “How so, Ser Jaime. Joffrey will never let me go,” she said bitterly, her voice still barely above a whisper. “And besides, Winterfell is now a ruin. To what home will you take me then, ser?”

Jaime inched in closer to her. “To Riverrun if I must. Or to your aunt, the Lady Lysa Arryn, in the Eyrie. She could keep you safe (Jaime actually doubted that one. He'd never really spent much time with the former Hand of the King's wife and always thought her quite odd – perhaps she was not the wisest choice). Or perhaps, if you wish, you could still make that marriage alliance Queen Margaery has proposed between you and her older brother Willas Tyrell. You would be safe with him, he is a good man, I've come to understand. And I . . . I will try to keep you safe until then Lady Sansa.”

His arm had reached out to Sansa and he was stroking light fingertips over her right arm, his calloused thumb drawing soothing circles over it. He didn't know how it happened but it did. He was touching her. Again. Sansa looked first at his hand still drawing light circles over her arm with his thumb, and then her eyes searched his.

Again, he didn't know how it happened but her back was now pressed against the wall and Jaime was struggling with her skirts, trying to get them high enough so he could lower her smallclothes around her knees and he could reach her mound. His mouth was on hers again, his tongue parting her lips eagerly, making her moan into their kiss while his fingers reached inside her undergarments and started rubbing her wet nub, making her whimper against him.

Jaime's cock was straining hard against his breeches. _This isn't right. I came here to end this. Why am I doing this? I have no more self-control than Tyrion has with his gaggle of whores. But Sansa is no whore. She's a lady, a woman. And I want to bury my cock deep inside her again. The Others take me, I_ want _her._

Jaime fumbled desperately with his laces, trying to release his throbbing member from his breeches, but it was no easy task with his Kingsguard armor on. _I have no honor as a Kingsguard_ , he tought. _I lost all honor I had when I killed mad old King Aerys, didn't I? Ned Stark had the right of it._ He wanted to stop himself, wanted to regain what little composure or honor might be left to him. But the Stark girl's eagerness (she was actually undoing the laces of his breeches herself now) was turning his brain to mush.

Next he knew, she had it out with a firm, yet trembling hand. The warmth of her hand against his already hot and heavy swollen manhood sent an incredible shudder running through his entire body.

“Lady Sansa,” he panted hard. “We shouldn't be doing this,” he was saying. But his body was betraying him as he ground his hips into her hand as she started to stroke his aching cock, making him groan in pleasure.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because it's wrong,” he answered, his hips still thrusting into Sansa's hand.

“Tell me. Why is it wrong, Ser Jaime? I am no longer a maiden, as you very well know. And we have already lain together last night. And I . . . I liked it.” She blushed again. “Despite . . . ” He knew she couldn't say it. _Despite Joffrey._

“I'm the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Sansa. I made a vow to uphold knightly virtues and to never sire a child.” He knew right then that his argument was a complete lie, and he knew that Sansa knew it too.

But she stopped stroking him. “Of course, you're right. To lie together again would mean a risk for me to be with child. But I don't care since I could take more moon tea,” she murmured, her eyes already completely blown in arousal. She bit at her lower lip.

Only one thought suddenly crossed Jaime's mind at that moment. _Fuck it._

With a loud moan he went back to kissing Sansa while his leaking cock was folded between them against her stomach, smearing fluid over her pink silk dress.

Sansa moaned loudly and wrapped her arms around Jaime's neck, pressing her lithe body flush against his in her eagerness again.

He pushed her smallclothes down to her knees while she wiggled free of them and stepped out of her sopping wet undergarment. His hand resumed rubbing her mound, his fingers searching for the bundle of nerves above her slick folds that would make her hips jump and twitch and bring her pleasure. After a few tentative tries and more moans of encouragement from Sansa, Jaime found the spot that had her shake all around him as she raised her right leg and wrapped it around his waist by digging her heel into the small of his back.

“Oh, OH . . . OHHHH” Sansa moaned into his mouth. “Please don't stop what you're doing!”

Fuck him, his cock was just so hard right now.

“Sansa . . .” her mouth was back over his and she was kissing him deeply, her tongue sliding wetly against his own. “Sansa . . . ” Jaime was trying to tell her something.

“Ser Jaime?” She was breathing heavily in arousal.

“Are you certain you still want this, Sansa?” Why in the seven hells was he even asking Sansa Stark if he could fuck her? The girl was already more than wet and willing for him. He was the bloody Kingslayer, he was not used to asking; he was used to _taking_. He'd never asked Cersei . . . Fuck, he didn't need to think about his twin sister just now. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Sansa's hips jerked against his hand. “Oh yes, please do,” she whimpered, a look of eagerness crossing her eyes as she bit again at her lower lip.

_The girl has no idea just how arousing this simple gesture she keeps on doing truly is._

Steadying himself against the wall by pushing his right arm against it, and grabbing hold of his hard member with his left hand to press it against Sansa's wet entrance, he pushed into her, thrusting his hips forward and upward against her, making her hiss loudly in pleasure.

With a loud groan he started to jerk his hips into her, thrusting his cock rhythmically inside her tight, wet cunt, the sound of his armor clinking and clunking as he did so.

Sansa was moaning and panting with each of his thrusts into her, her head tipped back against the wall, her eyes closed, her long white neck exposed and her mouth opened wide. The look on her face was one of complete ecstasy and it flung Jaime's already deep arousal even higher.

He let his head drop forward to her warm neck where he nuzzled and inhaled the scent of her. She wasn't wearing any perfume but her skin smelled of fresh flowers, somehow. Tentatively, he ran the tip of his tongue over her hammering pulse, slowly licking at it and eliciting another moan from her lips. Then he gently bit at her but resisted the urge to suckle on her soft skin and branding her as his – it wouldn't do for Joff to see that and know that Sansa had let someone else rut between her legs after the events of last night, least of all him. So he simply showered her neck with open-mouthed kisses.

Sansa was now grasping at the back of his head, entwining her slight fingers into his blond hair as she was obviously getting her pleasure with him fucking between her slender legs.

“Sansa, I'm close to releasing . . .” he panted against her. _Fuck, I can't release into her. She drank moon tea last night but it wouldn't do for the castle to know she had to take some more again today._

With a grunt, Jaime slid his cock wetly out of her and started stroking himself desperately, his closed fist pumping his hard length up and down heatedly and within less than a minute he released in his hand, his cock pulsing wildly, hot white spurts shooting from its tip while Sansa looked on with eyes opened wide, her breath coming in ragged.

Without losing a beat, he kneeled in front of her and lifted her right leg back up again, over his shoulder and his cold pauldron this time, and let his tongue dart over her over-sensitized nub, making her moan deeply as her hands went back to scratching his scalp.

In no time, Sansa's moans had turned to small cries of pleasure and she was shuddering all around him as she reached her own release, and Jaime was lapping at her juices. He fleetingly thought that they tasted sweet on his tongue, sweet and incredibly good. _Too bloody good_. Shit, if he wasn't careful, he could very well fall for the Stark girl. _And that wouldn't be good at all. In fact, it could very well get my head on a spike._ Jaime happened to like his head, and he liked it particularly still attached to his neck and shoulders. He certainly didn't want Ser Ilyn Payne to swing his sword and sever it from the rest of his rather nice-looking body if it could be helped.

After a heartbeat, he let her leg slide back down to the floor again and rose to his full height. Sansa was looking at him with eyes that were half closed in the wake of her climax. Her chest was heaving up and down hard in excitement, her luscious lips parted and red.

“Change dresses Lady Sansa, I fear this one has been ruined.” He heard himself say while he went to clean himself up at the washbasin. He had to make sure to get all the seed he'd spilled cleaned from his hands and his armor. Cersei would be all over him like a hawk if she'd spot a single speck. Not that he actually cared about Cersei.

Still, Jaime felt like he was a complete heartless bastard now, wasn't he? Truth be told, all he wanted to do was take Sansa back in his arms again and throw her on the bed and fuck her slowly once more. But he couldn't stay, shouldn't stay. It was too _dangerous_ for them both _._

“I believe everyone will be waiting for us both for supper later.” Before he turned around to leave he added, “wear the blue one . . . you look beautiful in it.”

Jaime Lannister walked out of Sansa's bedchamber before she could say one word.

*****

“Did you already know about this?” Jaime was looking his father in the eye.

Lord Tywin Lannisters' eyes were truly remarkable. A pale blue that seemed to bore into people's very souls. Jaime had inherited his mother's eyes, he feared. A grey-blue color.

What was even more remarkable about Tywin Lannister was his intellect and his shrewdness.

“Of course not. If I did, don't you think I would have stopped this? That I wouldn't have reined Joffrey in? If what you're telling me is true, then I believe you are right. We must send the Stark girl away, and the sooner the better. Tomorrow even. But I don't want her married to the Tyrell boy.”

Jaime looked at his father pace the width of his solar in the Tower of the Hand. He had a hard time believing his father hadn't known anything about Joffrey's mistreatment of Sansa. More like he'd chosen to ignore it since she meant nothing to him. As long as Joffrey wasn't killing the Stark girl, Lord Tywin couldn't care less if she was beaten and raped repeatedly by his grandson. Jaime was fuming but he tried to keep his anger hidden from his father.

“Why not?” Jaime said while he was still trying to keep his temper in check and his voice devoid of any emotion. “The Tyrells are already our allies through Joff's marriage to Margaery.”

“Exactly. They are _our_ allies and Highgarden does not need to become Stark allies as well and have their loyalties divided. No. She must be sent away and not to Riverrun or even the Eyrie for that matter, where she can become a pawn or a symbol of the northern rebellion against Lannister rule.”

“And where do you plan on sending Sansa Stark then, father?”

Tywin Lannister sat himself down behind his work table which was littered with opened books and parchments of all sizes. Some of them secret messages received by raven. He brought his hands pensively over his lips, for a moment deep in thought.

“We'll send her to Casterly Rock of course, and you will go with her.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“So, I escort the Stark girl to Casterly Rock. Then what? And how do you plan on letting Joffrey know this? He won't be willing to part with his little plaything so easily,” Jaime said.

“You won't only be accompanying the Stark girl, you will be her keeper. I need you to keep her there and keep her safe. That's why you will go along with a small garrison of red cloaks. As for Joffrey, leave the boy to me,” Lord Tywin said.

*****

Jaime didn't go to supper that evening, preferring to eat alone in his bedchamber and avoid Cersei, Joffrey, Margaery, Sansa, his Lord father, and even his brother Tyrion.

He was sitting almost in the dark, with a single tallow candle shedding a flickering light into his room, casting dancing shades on his walls, with a skin of Arbor gold wine to keep him company. He was pondering what his father had told him earlier.

So, he was to take Sansa Stark to Casterly Rock, and he was to be her keeper – her gaoler more like. And then what? At least, she would be better treated than she's ever been here in King's Landing by his little shit of a son Joffrey ever since he had her father, Lord Eddard Stark, beheaded for treason.

He'd promised the girl he'd keep her safe, but just how safe was Casterly Rock for Sansa Stark? She'd still be a wolf thrown into a den of lions. Without true freedom. And Jaime was a lion, was he not? And what about his . . . _feelings_ for her? It was all so confusing.

A slight knock at his door took Jaime out of his musing and back into his room. He rose slowly to open it, expecting to see Ser Osmund Kettleblack report to him but instead he found a Sansa Stark in tears.

He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into his bedchamber.

“Sansa,” he hissed. “What are you doing here? You're putting us both in danger . . .”

Then he noticed, despite the darkness of the room, that her left eye was almost swollen shut and that her lip was bleeding.

“Seven hells!”

Sansa was sobbing almost uncontrollably.

“Sansa,” Jaime was saying. “Who did this?” But even as he was asking the question, he knew who had done this – who had dared raise a hand to her. “Joffrey . . .”

Sansa only nodded through sobs.

Jaime had never been more angry in his life. And he'd never wanted to kill his son more than he did so now. That monstrosity that had come out of Cersei. That monstrosity that was born of both him and his twin sister. If ever there was a sign from the gods that what he and his twin sister had done was the worst of sins in the eyes of the Seven than this was it: Joffrey. Jaime didn't like the gods but he prayed to them right now. _May the Father above see that little cunt Joffrey to justice soon, or I will._

Taking her by the hand, Jaime then gently dragged Sansa to his bed and sat her down. “Don't move Sansa, I'll see to that cut and that eye. Did he hit you anywhere else?”

Sansa nodded again. “Yes,” she said. Her voice barely a whisper. She then put her hand over the side of her left ribcage and winced. “He was angry after your father announced I was to leave King's Landing on the morrow for Casterly Rock. He left supper early and I hoped he went to his bedchamber but he was waiting for me in mine.”

“Sansa . . . tell me,” Jaime couldn't find the words but he had to say them. “Did he –”

“–rape me?” She said, her beautiful blue eyes now red-rimmed from crying. It stirred Jaime in a way he'd never thought any other women could stir him. “No, he didn't, I escaped before he could try . . .”

Jaime went to his washbasin and rinsed a clean cloth. Sitting next to her, he started dabbing at her cut lip to clean away the blood. Then he went back to rinse the cloth and gently pressed it to her swollen eye.

“Hold the cloth over your eye, Sansa,” Jaime said.

Jaime left his room for a few minutes to ask his new squire, Podrick Payne, to go get a slab of raw beef from the kitchens and to bring it back to his bedchamber. “Do it discreetly,” Jaime added. Podrick looked surprised for a second but did as Jaime asked. _He's a good boy,_ Jaime thought. _It's hard to believe he's even related to Ser Ilyn, the King's Justice._

His brother Tyrion had asked Jaime to take Podrick on as his own personal squire when he'd returned from the Riverlands. His brother felt Podrick would – and rightly so – have a better chance of one day becoming a knight squiring for Jaime than lingering and loitering about Tyrion, no matter how loyal the youth was to him. After all, what would the Master of Coins want or even need a squire for?

“He's a good lad, Podrick,” Tyrion had said. “But more importantly, he's loyal. He saved my life during the Battle of the Blackwater,” was all Tyrion wanted to say about that subject.

Sometimes Jaime felt his brother was a bottomless font of mystery. He'd changed since that battle, the scar across his face only a physical reminder of how he'd almost died. Tyrion never spoke about it and when Jaime had tried prodding Podrick the squire had reddened but he'd kept his tongue, refusing to talk about it.

Jaime lit more candles in his room so he could have a better look at Sansa's wounds. He even stoked the dying embers in the hearth and fed it some wood. In just a few minutes, a fire was crackling merrily.

When Podrick returned with the raw beef, Jaime thanked him and asked him to guard the door. “Do not let any one in,” he told Podrick. “Not even the _king_.” _Especially not the king,_ he'd wanted to add. But he knew Podrick understood him. The young and eager squire had nodded and stood beside the door. Jaime returned to Sansa's side with the raw meat and applied it to her eye. “Hold this up to your eye Sansa, it'll help with the swelling.”

Sansa nodded again between two sobs. “I'm sorry,” she murmured.

“Don't be sorry Sansa. Joffrey is the one who should be sorry.” Then he started shifting uncomfortably on the bed. “Sansa, I need to look at your ribs. I have to undo the top of your dress . . . May I?”

Sansa looked at him intently and then she nodded yes.

“Turn around a little Sansa.”

She obeyed him and shifted on the bed, sitting so her back was now turned toward him. Slowly, he started to undo the laces at the back of her dress. When the laces were undone, he gently parted the fabric along her spine and down below her shoulder blades so it slowly fell down over her shoulders. Sansa helped him by taking her arms out of the dress's long sleeves. She was now down to her bodice. “I'll undo your bodice now,” he said low in his throat.

Jaime unlaced her bodice. When it was done, he very slowly took it off her. Sansa hissed a little and she tensed. Jaime made soothing circles over her right shoulder. “It's alright Sansa, you're going to be alright. Joffrey will never touch you again. I'll take care of you.” Why the fuck was he telling all that to her? He didn't know why, but the Stark girl definitely was awakening feelings he didn't know he still had left in him after Cersei's betrayals. Sansa relaxed a little. _Shit, I never thought I would ever undress another woman in my life before._ With the bodice off, Sansa was now down to her shift and Jaime noticed how tense her body was.

“I'm going to lift your shift so I can look at your ribs Sansa.”

She nodded again.

Jaime lifted the light fabric with his left hand and peered closely at her ribs. An ugly welt was already appearing over her white porcelain skin, but after a few gentle proddings, Jaime was satisfied that no ribs were broken. “Thankfully there are no broken ribs, Sansa. There is an ugly welt but it will disappear in time. Turn toward me again.”

Sansa turned round once more, wincing and keeping her shift in place over her breasts. Jaime's fingers brushed against hers and lifted the slab of beef off her eye. The swelling had stopped, thankfully, and the bruise hadn't swollen too much over her eye. “Can you see with your eye, Sansa?”

“Yes. I can see you, Ser Jaime.”

That was good. Sansa was in no danger of losing her eye, thank the gods. Jaime started simmering again and his jaw was clenching hard. He was going to take the Stark girl away to Casterly Rock tomorrow and he'll make sure Joffrey would never put his hands on Sansa Stark ever again.

He returned to his work table, where the wine was sitting, and he filled a cup. Returning to the bed, he handed it to Sansa. “Drink the wine, Lady Sansa, it'll help numb the pain and will help you sleep.”

“Do . . . do I have to return to my bedchamber?” She asked, her voice trembling.

“You'll sleep here Lady Stark. I'll ask for your maid servant . . . what is her name again?”

“Shae,” Sansa said.

“I'll ask Shae to prepare your belongings. In the meanwhile, you'll sleep here tonight. And tomorrow, we'll be leaving for Casterly Rock at first light and then you'll be out of Joffrey's life forever.

Sansa reached out her hand to lay it lightly over Jaime's. Her touch felt so warm against his skin that Jaime felt almost as if she'd just branded him. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Sansa smile at him through her tears.


	3. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister and Sansa Stark depart King's Landing for Casterly Rock. Sansa struggles with her feelings for the Kingslayer.

**Sansa**

Sansa woke from her deep sleep completely disoriented and blinked furiously. The room was still dark but light was slowly spilling through the window. _It is already dawn_. At first, she realized that she wasn't in her bed. Then she remembered the events of the previous night and she reached a trembling hand to her eye as her heart sank into the pit of her stomach. _Joffrey beat me_. It was still swollen but the swelling seemed to have at least diminished.

She noticed she was dressed in her nightgown but did not remember putting it on the night before. After the fourth – or was it her fifth – cup of wine, everything became a bit hazy.

“You're awake,” came a voice with a thick foreign accent.

_Shae._

Sansa pushed the warm blankets and furs aside and slowly sat on the side of the bed, gasping as the tip of her toes touched the cold flagstone floor. Looking around her, she took in the unfamiliar surroundings.

 _This is Ser Jaime's room._ She frowned as she tried to remember how and why she’d gotten to his room in the first place. _I came to him last night after Joffrey beat me again . . . He helped me and tried to comfort me. I also drank a lot of wine . . ._ Sansa blushed at the slow remembrance of the previous night. She knew the copious amount of wine she’d drunk was the reason she did not remember putting on her nightgown. Did Ser Jaime or Shae put it on for her? Did she do it herself?

“Where is Ser Jaime?” Sansa asked Shae. “Did you sleep here too?”

“Yes. He sent for me last evening and told me to pack your things and come sleep here with you, my lady. Podrick slept outside the door. He's a good boy, that one.”

“And . . . where did Ser Jaime sleep?” Sansa was fully aware that the Lord Commander of Joffrey’s Kingsguard hadn't slept in his own bed with her. She wasn’t as stupid as Joff made her to be. Still, Sansa hoped Ser Jaime hadn't slept outside in the hall with his squire, Podrick.

“I don't know my lady. But he did not sleep here, nor did he sleep in the hall with his squire.” Shae was busying herself around her, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her to her feet. “I’m to help you dress and get you ready to leave. The horses are already saddled and packed. There's a breakfast tray and some water set on the table here for you to eat and drink before you leave, but you must hurry.”

“Are you . . . are you not coming with me?” Sansa’s voice sounded so small when she spoke while she looked intently at her.

“No, my lady. Lord Tywin has forbidden it and I- I have a . . . friend here that I don’t want to leave behind. It will only be you and Ser Jaime and Podrick and a few red cloaks.”

Sansa’s heart clenched and sadness overcame her at the thought that Shae wouldn’t be coming with her. Her Lorathi handmaiden had been her only true friend in King’s Landing; what would she do without her? _I’ll have no one to talk to now._

Queen Margaery and her cousins had always been kind enough to her, but Margaery Tyrell had then turned a blind eye when Joffrey had started both beating and raping her not long after their wedding. Since the Hound had left, she’d been completely alone in the Red Keep but for Shae.

Sansa knew she would have no friends in Casterly Rock. Ser Jaime would be with her but she didn’t exactly know what was happening between them. He wanted her: that much was plain to see, even to her. But wanting and loving someone were two different things. She had the feeling he cared about her, at least a little. But he would be her gaoler now. She was only exchanging King’s Landing for Casterly Rock. _At least_ , she thought bitterly, _Joffrey won’t be able to touch me anymore._

And her, how did _she_ feel about the Lion of Lannister beyond the pleasure he had given her twice? Sansa wasn’t quite sure yet what her feelings were, but she felt herself blush thinking about him. Shaking her head, she looked at Shae and took her hand.

“Will you help me dress and brush my hair?”

Shae gave her a small smile while Sansa sat herself back on Jaime’s bed, waiting expectantly. Shae picked up her hairbrush and started brushing her long auburn hair.

*****

Ser Jaime and about a dozen or so red cloaks were already sitting their horses when Sansa walked into the courtyard followed by Shae. The morning was bright but chilly and she could see dark clouds approaching on the far horizon. There was no one to see them off but the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. That he was even there was a surprise to Sansa.

“Lady Sansa,” the dwarf said.

“My lord.”

“I will be sad to see you go Lady Sansa, but at least you’ll be safer in Casterly Rock than you ever were here in King’s Landing. I _am_ sorry for everything.”

Sansa knew the dwarf was talking about Joffrey. _He knew_ , she bitterly realized. _Did he even try to stop Joff? It wasn’t until Ser Jaime decided to intervene that something was done. Lord Tywin probably knew as well, yet he did nothing to help until yesterday. The whole of the Red Keep knew and no one raised a finger to help me._ “Thank you, my lord,” she replied evenly, courteously, all emotion gone from her voice. She was a lady after all, and her septa had always told her that courtesy was a lady’s armor.

“Be safe, my lady,” the Imp said to her, looking sincere.

Sansa nodded at him, staring without wanting to at the long scar crossing his face from left to right. A grievous wound he took during the Battle of the Blackwater while saving the city from Stannis Baratheon. _He is not so ugly as I always thought him to be, even with his scar_. “I will, my lord.” Tyrion took her right hand in his own, stunted one, and brushed a light kiss over her knuckles.

Then she turned toward Shae and hugged her. “Thank you for being my friend,” she whispered in her ear and kissed her cheek. Shae smiled at her with tears in her eyes before she gave Sansa’s hand a little comforting squeeze.

“Lady Sansa,” came Ser Jaime’s voice behind her. “We should depart now. The road to Casterly Rock is long and we need to make good time on the Gold Road to reach an inn I know of before the sun sets.”

“Of course, Ser Jaime,” she murmured. She noticed he wasn’t wearing his white Kingsguard armor but was instead wearing Lannister red. Even then, he wasn’t wearing full-on armor, just pieces here and there over a simple brown woolen tunic under his red cloak.

Podrick helped her climb onto her mare – a beautiful dappled grey horse that neighed softly when Sansa tried to sit in the saddle as comfortably as she possibly could, wrapping her heavy woolen cloak trimmed with soft sable fur closely about her to keep herself warm. The morning was chilly despite the brightness of the sun. Winter was almost here, after all.

She knew the road would be hard, especially since she was such a bad rider. _I should have strived to learn to ride as my brothers and Arya did_ , she thought sadly. She didn’t know where her wild little sister was or even if she was still alive. As for her brothers . . . well, they were all dead now, except for her half-brother Jon, who was so far away north on the Wall. She was the heir to Winterfell, or more precisely to its ruin. _The rightful Queen in the North_ , she thought bitterly. _And yet here I am, completely alone and still a prisoner for the Lions_.

“Be safe on the road brother, there have been rumblings of a company of brigands raping and pillaging south of the Blackwater Rush in the Reach,” she heard Tyrion say to Jaime. “They call themselves the Black Wolves.”

Sansa stiffened at the name. _The Black Wolves. I am a Stark wolf . . . Could it be a sign?_ Maybe they could free her? But no, the Imp said they were raping women . . .

Jaime cocked his head. “I’ve heard of them. They’re a small group of sellswords from Essos attacking defenseless men, women and children and half-empty villages. They’ll stay shy of our company of red cloaks, brother. And if they don’t, well, we’ll just kill them all now, shall we?” Jaime smiled his golden smile at his younger brother.

Sansa’s gaze went to the golden haired knight. She had a strange feeling that he was pointedly averting his gaze from her. She sighed softly and took hold of her mare’s reins from Podrick who’d been patiently waiting beside her the entire time. “Thank you,” she said sweetly and Jaime’s young squire’s cheeks became suffused with red before he lowered his gaze to the ground. _He doesn’t talk much but there is a kindness to him._

Ser Jaime gave the signal to start moving and took the head of the van, with Sansa following close beside him. Podrick was sitting his own garron, riding right behind them, and the company of Lannister red cloaks followed behind two abreast at a time.

They made their slow way out of the Red Keep and through King’s Landing by following River Row up to the King’s Gate. Even though it was early, the city was already bustling with activity and their small company drew curious glances and open stares. They then turned north to make their way out of the city from Lion’s Gate and onto the Gold Road.

Sansa stayed resolutely silent the entire time. Not saying a word and praying to the Mother’s mercy that she would actually make it out of the city without Joffrey stopping them, somehow. She was so afraid of the possibility that her knuckles were white as she grabbed the reins stiffly, her back so straight it was starting to hurt painfully.

When they finally made it out of King’s Landing, Sansa let out a deep breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding back since leaving the Red Keep. She exhaled slowly and finally started to relax.

Jaime leaned his golden head toward her almost imperceptibly and whispered low enough so she’d be the only one to hear him. “You’re safe from Joff now Sansa. I’ll protect you. Everything will be alright, I promise.”

Sansa hoped it would be true.

*****

They rode mostly in silence all that day and part of the evening too before they finally made it to the Crying Goat Inn.

Sansa was hurting everywhere; her legs were cramping, her back was killing her, her buttocks felt like they’d been chaffed raw (as were the inside of her thighs), and her arms were sore. But she’d kept silent about her discomfort, wanting to put as many miles between her and Joff as quick as possible.

The sky had darkened hours ago and a slight drizzle had started falling steadily since mid-morning. Though her cloak was snug around her, her hood pulled down deep over her head – protecting her from most of the wet rain – Sansa was starting to feel the damp seep through and she’d started to sniffle – much to her complete embarrassment.

Jaime gave orders to stop and unhorse while he effortlessly got off his own stallion. _He’s like a golden god, above all of us mere mortals. Everything appears easy to him._ As soon as his feet touched the muddy ground, sending brown splatters all over his soft calf leather booths, Jaime reached his arms to her and lifted her with ease from her own mare, his strong hands encircling her waist. It made her suddenly flustered and out of breath.

As soon as her feet touched solid ground, Sansa’s legs wobbled and gave way. She would have stumbled forward had it not been for Jaime’s strong arms around her. He held her almost as she was falling, and she found herself being pressed flush against the Kingslayer’s chest.

“Sansa . . .” he murmured against her hair.

Sansa blushed prettily and whispered back “Ser Jaime.”

They looked at each other deeply, without saying a single word, but Jaime broke the moment quickly when he started uttering words of command to his men.

Sansa straightened as Jaime’s arms around her slender waist slowly left her and she lowered her eyes demurely to the ground. Her body felt tingly all over both because of the long hours spent on horseback and because he had held her close. Her heart was beating hard and fast in her chest and she tried to will it to still. _Did his heart start beating fast too?_ Sansa couldn’t tell since she’d been pressed flush against his cold breastplate. He probably wasn’t even aware that her pulse had started racing.

She turned her attention to the Crying Goat Inn. The place looked to have been thankfully spared the horrors of the War of the Five Kings and was in relative good shape, telling her business was booming on the Gold Road despite everything. _The Black Wolves probably haven’t made their way here either._ It was a big inn, four stories tall with whitewashed walls framed with dark timber. A wooden sign depicting a crying goat painted over a field of blue could be seen at the inn’s entrance. The stables were close enough to the main building and seemed to be rather extensive; she could hear horses neighing. There was even a small smithy on the premises.

Sansa could also hear music booming from inside the place.

A young boy, probably no older than eight with thick, tussled black hair rushed from inside the inn to grab their horses’ reins. Jaime tossed a coin to him. “See the horses to the stables and brush, feed and water them. There will be another coin for you when that’s done.”

The urchin smiled toothily at Jaime and Sansa saw gaps between his teeth. She smiled back at him. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Leo,” the young boy said, smiling broadly at her and actually blushing while he held the reins in his small hands. “There’ clean rooms available for you and your lady, m’lord. No fleas, honest. My ma makes the best goat stew in the area and it’s got onions and radishes and cabbage and we’ve got good bread and ale too.”

Jaime laughed at Leo’s fluster and winked at Sansa. “Then we’ll gladly eat your mother’s stew and bread and drink some good ale, perhaps even have some wine, if she has some in her cellars,” he told a still-grinning and blushing Leo while Sansa heard her tummy rumble hungrily at the mention of food.

When Leo had left them to take their horses to the stables Jaime looked at Sansa and smiled. “I believe you’ve made a conquest of Leo, my lady.”

Sansa smiled back at Ser Jaime. The Kingslayer cleared his throat. “We better get in Lady Sansa, we don’t want you getting sick before reaching Casterly Rock.” Then he turned to the red cloaks and told them to find beds and eat their meals in the stables.

Sansa followed Ser Jaime inside the inn while his hand was resting lightly on the pommel of his new Valyrian sword Oathkeeper (Sansa knew it was made from her dead father’s own sword Ice but she tried not to dwell on it) – a gift from Lord Tywin to his son Jaime upon his return from the riverlands – and he walked in with a swagger in his step.

Podrick followed closely behind.

Jaime walked directly to a matronly woman with a large gait who was huffing and puffing serving meals in the great hall, her cheeks red. The dimly lit room was half-filled with men (and smoke from the chimney) – most of them had the look of peasants but Sansa could see there were quite a few knights and sellswords as well taking their meals in sullen silence while a few musicians were finishing their horrid rendition of “The Bear and the Maiden Fair.”

“Innkeep, we need two adjoining rooms, one for me and my lady wife (Sansa unexpectedly blushed a deep crimson when he called her his lady wife), and one for my squire here,” Jaime waved his hand at Podrick standing silently behind them. “I will also be needing meals for us and the twelve men that will sleep in the stables. I’ll also have a hot bath brought up to my room, if that is not too much trouble,” Jaime asked her, putting on his brightest and cockiest smile yet.

The innkeep eyed Jaime up and down with her hands on her hips before her eyes flickered to Sansa and she stared openly at her swollen eye and her cut lip. Sansa’s face became hot again and she felt as if the woman’s eyes were peering almost through her soul and it sent some uncomfortable shivers down her spine.

“It’ll be two silver stags for the rooms and the meals and the stables and the bath besides. Will you be eating here in the hall or up in your rooms m’lord?”

“We’ll eat here. Tell me, have you some wine?”

“Aye m’lord. But none of your fine vintages as you’re no doubt used to.”

Her accent was strange to Sansa. Not quite Westerlander like Jaime or the Hound, but not quite from King’s Landing either. She wondered where the woman was from.

Jaime was still smiling at the innkeep. “Nonetheless, we’ll take a skin.” Jaime turned to Podrick. “See to our rooms then take your meal upstairs.” Podrick nodded and left to follow the woman who huffed again as she started climbing the stairs to show Podrick their rooms.

Jaime’s hand then brushed against the small of her back, making her skin prickle in small goose bumps and it sent an unbidden jolt of arousal course through her body that made her womanly place start to ache dully. _Oh no,_ Sansa thought. _Why is he making me feel that way?_ She felt her face become hot and flustered and hoped Ser Jaime wouldn’t notice how strongly she’d reacted to the mere touch of his hand on her again.

“Come with me Sansa,” he said, and she felt Jaime guiding her gently towards the back of the great hall to sit at a lonely table situated in the far corner of the room. By sitting there, they would have the wall at their back and it would offer Jaime an unobstructed view of the door and of the other inn’s guests.

The matronly innkeep quickly returned with a skin of wine, a loaf of bread hot from the oven, and two bowls of goat stew. “I’ve had the bath brought up to your room, m’lord. My daughter Willa will fill it with hot water while you eat so it’ll be ready by the time you go up to your room.” Jaime nodded his assent and the innkeep puffed back to the kitchens.

Sansa hadn’t noticed a daughter working around the hall. Perhaps Willa worked in the kitchens? She wondered if she looked anything like Leo, with dark hair and a toothy grin. From the corner of her eye, she saw a young girl – perhaps no older than Sansa was – with a mop of dirty blond hair tied by a piece of cloth step down the staircase with an empty pail in her hand. _This must be Willa. She doesn’t look like her little brother Leo_. In fact, Leo didn’t look like his mother either, she thought. _Maybe he takes after his father?_

Jaime promptly filled their cups with the pale wine and took a sip while Sansa grabbed the spoon to start eating her stew heartily. She was completely famished and the food smelled so good. The goat stew was actually excellent, and so was the warm loaf of bread. It felt wonderful to have something in her stomach again, their last meal being the crispy bacon, blood sausages and dark bread she’d eaten in the early hours of the morning before they left King’s Landing. Jaime hadn’t wanted to stop on the road to eat and she had a feeling that he too wanted to put as many miles between them and King’s Landing as fast as was possible. He’d handed her some dry sausage that was hard as a rock to eat but she’d been so anxious she hadn’t been able to eat one single bite.

“Not bad,” Jaime said about the wine. “Not as good as the Arbor gold but still palatable. I’ve had worse wines in my life, or rather, piss that passed as wine,” he said, chuckling. “Will you have some wine Sansa? You’ll sleep all the better for it.”

Sansa reached for her cup of wine and took a little sip. It wasn’t very good, she thought, and put it back on the table to resume eating her stew in silence. She didn’t know what to say or how to engage in a conversation with Ser Jaime who looked as uncomfortable as she was, but she found her eyes darting quite a few times over to look at him before blushing again. He cleared his throat and started eating his own stew and emptied the wine skin.

When they’d finish their meals, still in complete silence, Jaime then said “I believe it is time for us go up to our room, my lady.”

Sansa’s heart started racing again but she nodded at him and they slowly got up. She could feel wary eyes from the great hall following them as they made their way to the stairs. _They must know he is a Lannister man,_ she thought. _But perhaps they may not know exactly just_ who _he truly is. At least, I hope they don’t._ Sansa was afraid someone would recognize him – or would (even worse) recognize _her_ – and then would decide to be brave and stupid and engage the Kingslayer to a fight. _A fight they would lose._

“Come my lady,” Jaime was urging her on. He obviously didn’t want to linger in the great hall. Sansa swiftly obeyed and they made their way up the stairs promptly. Podrick was waiting for them sitting on the top stair and as soon as he saw them he hurried to show them their sleeping accommodations.

Their bedchamber was situated at the end of the hall on the first floor of the inn and Sansa looked around as soon as they walked in. It was a rather large room with windows on two sides and the bed was massive. Sansa thought it could probably easily fit as many as four to five people sleeping shoulder to shoulder. It looked clean, and she noticed the fresh rushes on the floor. A fire was roaring merrily in the fireplace and the wooden bathtub was in the middle of the room, filled with hot steamy water.

She turned toward Ser Jaime. “Why did you say I was your wife?” she asked in a small voice, her eyes looking at him intently while she felt her cheeks flush red again.

“It was easier that way, Lady Sansa. Less questions asked,” he shrugged. He was still averting his gaze from her.

Her shoulders slumped a little. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

“No one would think twice about questioning a lady traveling with her Lord Husband, Sansa,” said the blond knight. “But a young unmarried woman traveling without a maid and surrounded by armed men would raise many eyebrows – and even more questions – and attract curiosity and perhaps even the wrong kind of trouble; the kind that could get you kidnapped or maimed or even killed.”

Sansa nodded at Jaime. She didn’t know why but she felt disappointed by Jaime’s explanation and by the fact he was still obviously avoiding looking directly at her.

“I will wait in the hall while you take your bath, Lady Sansa. Then get dressed and get into bed before letting me know that I can enter the room.”

Jaime then left before she could say anything back and gently closed the door behind him.

Even though she no longer had a maid to help her, Sansa quickly divested herself of her many layers of clothing, peeling each one in turn before laying them neatly onto a nearby chair.

She slowly stepped into the tub and sighed loudly as she sank neck deep into the warm soothing waters. Not wanting to take too long so that Ser Jaime could also enjoy the hot water, she hurriedly started to wash herself, starting with her hair. Taking the bar of soap and the brush that were laid neatly by the bath in her hands, Sansa scrubbed herself all pink and clean.

When she was finished, she gingerly got out of the tub and dried herself with one of the towels that were also left beside it. Fumbling in the trunk that held her clothes (Podrick had brought their things up), Sansa pulled out her nightgown and some clean smallclothes. She quickly dressed herself, slipped under the blankets in the comfortable bed, and called out.

“You can come in S- Jaime.”

The door slowly opened and the Kingslayer stepped into the room. His armor was already gone – probably taken off with Podrick’s help in the squire’s room next door, even though she knew Jaime Lannister was capable of taking his entire armor by himself – and he was now only wearing his woolen shirt, soft leather breeches and booths. Sansa’s eyes followed him while he made his way to the bathtub. Then she closed her eyes while Ser Jaime started taking off his clothes and she heard him step into the tub.

Sansa didn’t know how long he actually stayed in the tub as she started dozing off, so tired she was after an entire day spent riding in the rain. She became dimly aware that he’d climbed into the bed next to her and that he tucked the blankets around her.

Then she fell into a sweet oblivion.

*****

Joffrey had found her.

He was standing in the middle of the room with his crossbow aimed squarely at her. She didn’t know where Ser Jaime had gone to and she was alone in the large bed. The golden stag crown on Joff’s pale blond head was glinting in the moonlight, the only light in the room. Sansa was terrified.

“There you are, Sansa! There you are traitor whore! I’ll make you regret leaving me. Oh, yes, I’ll make you pay for that dearly. I think I’ll have Ser Ilyn Payne chop your traitor whore head off from your body and put it up on a spike. Would you like that Sansa? Would you? I think you would,” he chuckled darkly.

“No, please!” Sansa whimpered, crying. How did Joffrey reach them so fast? She thought she was safe, Jaime had promised her she’d be safe. Where was he? She looked left and right, panic overwhelming her, but he wasn’t there.

“Don’t look for my uncle, traitor whore. He’s left, gone back to King’s Landing. He never wanted to take you to Casterly Rock. Never wanted to help you. Never wanted _you._

“What? No, leave me alone Joffrey please, please, _please!_ ” She was grasping the blankets tightly, her knuckles white.

“I’ll never leave you alone Stark whore. _Never!_ But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Joffrey inched in closer to her, his crossbow still aimed in her direction. Sansa could see his hands were trembling, and she thought she could smell the faint smell of wine emanating from him. _Oh no! Is Joffrey drunk again?_

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat and in that instant, the quarrel left his crossbow.

Sansa screamed and screamed as two warm arms held her close to a warm chest, a soothing voice hot in her ear.

“You’re safe Sansa, you’re safe. _Shhhh_. Everything is alright. You were dreaming and talking in your sleep.”

Sansa struggled feebly against the strong arms encircling her and blinked furiously as she was slowly taking in her surroundings. Ser Jaime was holding her against him, his brows furrowed and a look of worry etched plainly across his beautiful face. The fire was still crackling in the fireplace so she knew she’d not been asleep long.

_I was asleep. It was only a dream. Joffrey was never here. I am not dead. I am safe._

Her face was still pressed against Jaime’s large chest, her cheek against his soft opened tunic, the hair on his chest tickling her. His warm arms were still holding her close as he kept murmuring soothing words in her ear.

Sansa could hear the beating of his heart; strong and steady. She could also smell the scent of him. It was both musky and mingled with fresh soap. Sansa closed her eyes again for a moment to breathe him in. She felt good like this, almost perfect, in Jaime’s arms.

She slowly raised her head to look at him. Her eyes were full of tears and some had streamed down her cheeks to wet his strong chest and the fabric of his tunic. She also noticed the troubled look that was slowly appearing across his face. _He doesn’t know how he should feel about me._ That was plain for her to see.

Their eyes were locked together, she could see how his blue-grey eyes were looking at her deeply, how they seemed to be thinking about what he should or shouldn’t be doing next. Since she was pressed against him, and her right leg was actually thrown over his lap, she could feel his stiffening member pressing against his breeches.

Jaime Lannister was aroused and he was calculating whether he should take her again or not.

Sansa made the decision for him and she tentatively pressed her lips against his. At first, Jaime did nothing. His lips were resolutely closed shut against the onslaught of her mouth. Sansa stopped kissing him and blushed at her own wantonness. “I’m sorry, Ser Jaime . . .”

Then he closed his mouth over hers, his lips parted and his tongue slid against her soft lips. Sansa moaned and opened her mouth against his. His tongue darted inside to play with her, sliding it wetly against her before deepening the kiss, sending some wonderful shivers down her spine and making her womanly place start to ache again.

Sansa felt his right hand caress her back in soothing circles before sliding it upwards to press it against the nape of her neck, bringing her mouth closer to his and kissing her hard.

They both started to moan into their kiss and Jaime’s other hand went slowly up her side before going to her chest to start cupping her breast. Sansa moaned loudly when he slipped his hand inside the top of her nightgown and his fingers found and pinched her hard nipple and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. She felt a sudden rush of wetness dampen the inside of her thighs.

“Sansa,” Jaime moaned against her ear, his breath hot. “What are we doing?”

Sansa was incredibly aroused, and no matter what they were doing, she did not want them to stop.

She looked up at him, her chest heaving up and down in excitement. She saw how his pupils were blown and she knew her eyes were glazed over in pleasure too. “Do we have to think about that? Can we not simply enjoy each other?” She asked timidly.

Jaime’s fingers were still rolling her hard little nipple between his calloused digits, making her moan loudly again.

Jaime let out a groan and started kissing her deeply again, while he turned them over so Sansa was now lying on her back and he was on top of her, his body pressing them both heavily into the mattress.

Dragging her nightgown up over her hips and tugging at her smallclothes to take them off her he then nudged her legs open with his knees. Jaime lowered himself over her and she could feel the press of his hard length against her mound, making her buck her hips under him in pure pleasure.

Sansa whimpered in need and caressed his muscular back before sliding her arms over his front, reaching down where her hands fluttered over the laces of his breeches, trying to undo them. As soon as she managed to pull them open, she reached in and dragged his hard manhood out, making Jaime moan loudly.

Sansa started stroking him softly. _His manhood is so soft and warm_ , she thought. She’d never touched a man’s hard member before Jaime Lannister, and she was amazed at the way it felt in her hand. It was hot and heavy and swollen and just so _hard_. It made her womanly place ache even more in want of him. She rubbed her thumb over the tip of his cock, dragging it over his slit where she noticed a sticky fluid was leaking. She spread it slowly over his cockhead, making him shudder, and resumed stroking him again.

Jaime was now grunting and bucking his hips into her hand. “Harder, Sansa,” he murmured, his lips pressed against her hair.

Sansa looked at him – seeing a raw need in his eyes – before lowering her eyes to his hard manhood again. She started stroking him harder, making him moan and move his hips into her hand as if he was fucking into her. Sansa whimpered in need and, wrapping her legs over his lean waist, she steadied his hard shaft against her wet folds. Her womanhood was throbbing in complete and utter need for him to enter her, and she bucked her hips against him, making the tip of his stiff member slide easily inside her.

Jaime groaned deeply and without a moment’s hesitation he pushed into her, filling her with his hard length.

Sansa moaned loudly and arched her back into him. It felt incredibly good again to have him deep inside her. She grasped at his muscular arms now laying on each side of her while his hips started thrusting into her.

“Sansa . . .” Jaime groaned and his lips searched for hers hungrily.

“Ser Jaime,” she moaned back into his mouth as he slid his tongue inside her needy mouth.

He chuckled. “I believe you can simply call me Jaime now Sansa.”

Sansa blushed deeply; she could feel her face become hot again. But she didn’t have time to be embarrassed when Jaime’s hips started snapping hard against her, making her gasp in pleasure before she moaned loudly with each thrust of his hard manhood inside her.

Jaime was now rolling his hips into her rhythmically, his breath coming in hot and fast while Sansa’s moans had hitched higher. She snaked her arm between them and started rubbing her hard nub almost desperately. She could feel her release approaching fast, Jaime’s hard length rubbing a place inside that felt so wonderful she almost sobbed in pure bliss.

“Are you close Sansa?” Jaime panted in her ear.

“Yes,” she moaned. “Oh, yes, Jaime, I’m- I’m close . . .” She bucked her hips against him again, her fluttering fingers rubbing her nub even faster.

Jaime let out a deep groan and his hips started moving into her wildly, all rhythm lost. His hard manhood was still hitting that place inside her that was so wonderful she felt tears slowly pool at the corner of her eyes, a sob catching in her throat as her release suddenly hit her and she moaned and moaned, her back arching into him, her nipples puckered into tiny peaks and in need of friction against his powerful chest.

Her body started to convulse violently underneath Jaime and she felt his hard member suddenly pulse hard inside her as he too reached his climax, her name spilling from his lips as he came.

Grinding their hips together, they drew every ounce of pleasure they had left in them before they stilled, their hearts beating like drums, their breath hot against each other.

Jaime started kissing her again, and again, and again while Sansa could feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back heatedly, reveling in their closeness.

Grunting, Jaime turned on his back while his manhood slid wetly out of her. Sansa stepped out of the bed gingerly and made her way to the tub. Taking one of the towels she dipped it into the lukewarm water and cleaned herself of the sticky fluid that covered the inside of her thighs and her lady parts. Then she rinsed it and brought it to Jaime who quickly washed away the seed off him too.

After they’d washed, Sansa returned to the bed where Jaime wrapped his strong arm around her shoulders, and Sansa snuggled against the crook of his arm, sighing loudly.

After a few minutes spent in silence, he repeated his earlier question. “What are we doing Sansa?”

 _Making love_ , was what she wanted to say. “Finding solace . . . perhaps? I . . . I will understand if you want to put an end to this,” she said in a small voice while her heart sank into the pit of her stomach again. She didn’t want it . . . didn’t want _this_ to end. But she couldn’t very well force the Lion of Lannister – the infamous Kingslayer – into fucking her now could she?

Jaime kept silent for long minutes before he started slowly. “Yes . . . finding solace . . . Why can’t we?” Then he kissed her brow and held her even closer to him before his breathing became deep and even and she knew he’d fallen asleep.


	4. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Gold Road, Jaime and Sansa run into trouble.

**Jaime**

They left the Crying Goat Inn shortly after dawn, having broken their fast in the great hall with black sausages, hot bread and crispy bacon, and a jug of ale that was just as mediocre as the wine. _At least the food is good_ , Jaime thought.

Sansa had fallen silent again and she was playing with her food; Jaime didn’t know what to say to her either so he too was unusually silent.

He hated himself for having given into his desires for the Stark girl again last night. He knew sleeping in the same bed had been a terrible idea at best, but Sansa had already been asleep when he stepped out of the tub. He should have slept on the floor, but the bed was so large and inviting he thought there would be no harm in him sleeping in it, beside her – especially since he knew that the days and weeks ahead would be mostly spent sleeping in bedrolls on the cold hard ground. Even though there were quite a few inns, holdfasts and villages on the Gold Road between King’s Landing and Casterly Rock, there would be nights when they would have to sleep outside. Besides, Jaime didn’t know if any of them had survived the War of the Five Kings intact like the Crying Goat – in fact, he doubted it. There was also the matter of the Black Wolves that worried him.

Still, how wrong had he been.

When the Stark girl had suddenly woken in the throes of a nightmare, screaming Joffrey’s bloody name, Jaime had tried soothing her. But the warmth of her supple body pressed against his had aroused him despite himself, and after a short moment’s hesitation he’d taken her again when Sansa had started kissing him and he’d yielded to her embrace eagerly enough.

Now Jaime was doubly worried that Sansa could be pregnant, and he desperately hoped they would reach a holdfast on the road that would have a maester or a septa or even someone with enough knowledge of herbs to give her moon tea. Since he’d told the innkeep they were married, he couldn’t possibly ask the woman for the brew without arousing more suspicion.

They climbed their horses and departed soon after Jaime had thrown another coin at Leo who grinned widely again. The urchin waved them away goodbye, and both Jaime and Sansa waved back, Sansa smiling brightly at the dark-haired boy as she did so.

Much like the day before, this day was also mostly spent riding in silence except for the occasional order Jaime had to shout to his men.

The sun was shining brightly but the day was cold; _at least_ , Jaime thought, _it isn’t raining anymore_.

Jaime was once again leading the van, with Sansa and Podrick following right behind him and the dozen red cloaks closing the rear. Jaime had thought it passing strange that his father had assigned so few of them to their party. More men would have been safer but he guessed Lord Tywin Lannister wasn’t very concerned with Sansa’s safety, or even his own son’s. Jaime had asked for more of them, but his father had flat out refused, claiming he needed as many red cloaks in King’s Landing – no doubt to protect them all from the increasingly disgruntled mob – as he could.

Jaime thought that it even was a miracle that they’d actually managed to leave the city without any incident or harm befalling them the day before. No rock or cow dung was thrown at them when he had almost expected the worse ever since he’d heard of the violent events of the bread riots.

Jaime’s train of thought was brought back to the present when they soon reached a fork in the Gold Road that would take them across a small branch in the Blackwater Rush. Since the river was rather narrow and no ships could pass there, a wooden bridge had been built decades ago to span the two banks, but the previous day’s rain had swollen the river out of its bed just enough so that the water was churning dangerously close to the bridge.

“We have to cross here,” Jaime said. Then he looked at Sansa who’d turned white as a sheet. “There is no reason to be afraid my lady, the bridge is perfectly safe. I’ve crossed it quite a few times before.”

He could see her staring at the churning waters with eyes opened wide, could see how terrified she was as her hands were grasping her mare’s reins tightly, her knuckles white under the strain, her back stiff in the saddle.

He brought his stallion close to her dappled grey mare. “What is it Sansa, what are you afraid of?”

“I can’t swim,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We’ll cross together Lady Stark if it will make you feel better, there’s really no need to worry.” Sansa looked at him with her beautiful Tully-blue eyes. The swelling over her eye had diminished again and it was now all shades of green and blue, while her cut lip was also slowly healing. It didn’t seem to have hurt her last night when they’d been kissing, and she hadn’t complained about her ribs, telling Jaime her injuries were healing nicely and that they’d looked far worse than they were. Still, Jaime made a mental note to make Joffrey pay for the suffering he’d inflicted on Ned Stark’s daughter.

Jaime turned round to look at Podrick and his men. “We’ll cross the bridge two at a time. Pod, follow the Lady Sansa and I onto the bridge as soon as we’ve crossed over.”  

Podrick nodded his assent and Jaime turned back toward Sansa. “We must go now, Lady Stark.” He smiled encouragingly at her and she gave him a little smile back that unexpectedly made his heart skip a beat. _Seven hells, I feel like a bloody squire._

Sansa stiffened even more when Jaime took her mare’s reins and he took their horses slowly across the wooden bridge. It was creaking loudly and Jaime had to admit he didn’t like the sound of it. Rushing water was lapping over the planks at each of the bridge’s extremities, making parts of it slippery as all the bloody hells. Glancing toward Sansa, he saw that she was completely and utterly terrified.

“It’ll be alright Sansa, it’ll be alright,” he mumbled through gritted teeth, his voice low in his throat. She tried smiling at him again but it came as a frightened smirk.

 _She’s petrified_. Jaime felt the overpowering need to comfort her but he was too busy trying to control the horses that had started to act skittish and were terrified themselves. His own stallion was almost dancing underneath him. _Not good_ , Jaime thought. _We need to be on the other side of that bridge as fast as we can_.

More loud creaking and cracking noises were heard and Jaime knew right away they were in trouble. _The fucking bridge is going to break. The Mother protect us!_ “Sansa, hold on!” Jaime shouted over the deafening sound of water rushing beneath the bridge and of wooden planks snapping and breaking.

He kicked his horse’s sides and had it quickly at a gallop as planks were getting ripped off by the churning waters. Sansa’s mare was galloping and neighing wildly in fear, while Jaime tried to control the dappled grey garron. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sansa trying to hold on to her mare’s saddle, her knuckles and her face white, and for one terrifying moment, Jaime feared she would fall off her mare and be swept by the Blackwater Rush.

As soon as they were safely across the bridge and back onto solid ground, a deafening noise was heard as the bridge split in half and was swept away by the swirling, raging waters. Broken wooden planks bobbed up and down wildly amidst the frothing waters as they were swept downstream.

Jaime stared at the spot where the bridge had stood just moments before in complete disbelief. On the other side of the bank, his men were shouting and Podrick was staring with eyes so wide Jaime could see the white of his eyeballs from where he stood.

He quickly unhorsed and went to Sansa’s side, looking up at her. “Are you unharmed my lady?” he asked worriedly. She looked down at him, fear etched plainly across her beautiful, heart-shaped face, the blue of her eyes shining brightly with tears. “Yes,” she whispered.

Jaime then went to the river’s edge and shouted at his men. “You’ll need to go a few miles further up to find another bridge. Make sure it is safe before crossing it. Then you’ll have to ride hard to meet with us again on the Gold Road. We’ll wait for you at the next holdfast about ten miles up this road.”

Ser Martyn Marbrand – a nephew of Lord Damon Marbrand of Ashemark – the commander of the company of red cloaks shouted back: “Is that wise Ser Jaime? The Black Wolves are known to rape and pillage south of the Blackwater Rush. Perhaps you should wait for us here until we come back to you?”

Jaime started simmering. As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Lord Tywin’s son he wasn’t used to having his orders questioned. Especially by a Lannister man. His _own_ man. Jaime made a mental note to demote Ser Martyn the next time he saw him. That would teach him to question orders from his superior in front of the others.

“I have given you an order, ser,” Jaime shouted back. “I expect to have it obeyed. And we’re not yet south of the Blackwater Rush.”

He could almost see Ser Martyn’s jaw clench hard at the rebuke. “Yes, ser. We’ll do as you order, ser. But what if the next bridge is in the same shape? Or gone? Then what do we do, ser?”

The Others take him. Jaime was angry now. Was the man a complete idiot? “Then you will look for the next bridge, or the next, until you find one you can cross. If you are not at the holdfast by tomorrow morning, the Lady Sansa and I will continue on the Gold Road. So you will have to try and find us. If not . . . well, we’ll be waiting for you at Deep Den.”

Jaime liked the idea of being alone with Sansa on the road less and less. He knew they would be easy prey for the Black Wolves. Jaime was almost of a mind to leave the main road and make their way through forest wherever they could. But he also knew the sellswords probably also used the forest as cover. Either way, they were completely vulnerable, and Jaime bloody well knew it. He may be one of the best swords in Westeros, but even he couldn’t fight a company of sellswords by himself.

He shouted again. “Pod, stay with Ser Martyn, we’ll see you soon.”

“Yes ser,” Podrick shouted back.

 _Good boy. I’ve a mind to make Podrick the leader of the red cloaks when we meet again_ , Jaime thought. _He has more sense in him than that idiot Ser Martyn_. Jaime couldn’t believe he was cousin to Ser Addam Marbrand. But then again, Jaime also had cousins not worth the Lannister name, Lancel being one of them.

Then he turned toward Sansa. “We’ve lost our clothes for now, Lady Sansa. But we still have our bedrolls (they were in fact tied to the back of their horses). We should be able to make good time to reach the holdfast, the home of Lord Stephen Wryght. He’ll give us shelter and maybe he’ll have some clothes to spare until our company meets with us again.”

Sansa nodded silently while she worried at her lower lip.

Jaime felt the urge to hold the girl close to him once more. She definitely was awakening feelings in him he didn’t know he had left after learning of Cersei’s countless betrayals.

Without another word he climbed back onto his stallion. “Will you be able to ride your mare Sansa?”

He saw Sansa swallow hard. “Yes, Ser Jaime. I think . . . I think I will.”

Jaime reached out and squeezed her hand reassuringly while she gave him a hopeful smile, making his heart unexpectedly beat a little faster.

*****

They reached Lord Wryght’s holdfast before the sun was setting over the horizon after they’d briefly stopped for a meal of black bread and cold rock-hard sausages. It was a massive stone castle entirely square, with round towers on each corner. Ivy was covering the outer walls almost completely, giving it an eerie appearance, as if it wasn’t lived in. There was a moat all around and it was filled to the brim with dark, muddy waters.

The drawbridge was raised, so Jaime gave a shout. He could see a sentry looking through one of the murder holes in one of the round towers and he could see a crossbow quarrel aimed at them through another opening.

“Who goes there?” Came a booming voice.

“I am Ser Jaime Lannister, your master is friend to my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King – _your_ king.

Silence.

“In the name of King Joffrey Baratheon, the first of his name, open up,” he shouted again.

More silence.

Jaime was trying his damned best not to fidget on his horse. He wasn’t liking this one bit.

Long minutes passed before he heard the creaking of chains as the drawbridge was being slowly lowered.

 _Finally_ , Jaime thought.

When the drawbridge was finally lowered, Jaime spurred his stallion onward and made his way cautiously down the ramp right through the gatehouse, followed closely by Sansa. They were welcomed by a small group of seven armed soldiers, six of which had crossbows aimed at them.

“Who leads here?” Jaime asked authoritatively while Sansa was sitting her horse close behind him. He didn’t need to see her to know she was as tense as those crossbows in front of them.

A tall man in grey armor with three arrows struck by lightning on a field of blue was standing by the six armed soldiers, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, a nonchalant demeanor over his countenance. He was rather handsome with long, dark, wavy hair and a slightly hooked nose. He had a closely trimmed beard that made him look older than he probably was.

“I do, ser,” the tall man said.

Jaime sized him up in one glance. _Probably the eldest son_ , was Jaime’s thought. A Ser Lewys Wryght, if he remembered correctly, though he’d never met him before. “Well met, ser,” Jaime smiled cockily at the young man. “And your name . . ?”

“I am Ser Lewys Wryght, ser.” The man replied with a haughty tone.

“I am —” Jaime started.

“—the Kingslayer, yes, I know.”

Jaime didn’t like Ser Lewys’ tone. “We claim the rights of hospitality,” Jaime said. “The lady here is tired and we wish to spend the night as your father’s guests.”

“My father is an old, fatigued man,” Ser Lewys replied. “Your presence here could bring him more trouble than you’re worth.”

Jaime’s smile became a grin. He wanted to bash the man’s face in so badly his hand was clutching the pommel of his sword twitchily. Ser Lewys’ eyes stared at his hand, and Jaime could almost see how he was probably considering the next words that would come out of his mouth more carefully this time. He knew he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of House Lannister, so Jaime hoped the man’s better sense would prevail.

“We are not here to make any trouble, ser,” Jaime assured him with another cocky smile. “As I said, the lady here is tired. We have been travelling all day and have lost our party when the bridge crossing a small branch of the Blackwater Rush a few miles back was swept away. Since our fathers are friends – they _are_ friends, are they not? – I presumed Lord Wryght would have been more than happy and honored to receive Lord Tywin’s eldest son – and the king’s uncle – into his formidable abode for a night.”

A strange look crossed Ser Lewys’ face. _He knows Joffrey is my son_ , Jaime thought. _Damn that damned Stannis Baratheon and his bloody righteousness_ _–_ and _his ravens._

Ser Lewys cleared his throat and Jaime thought for a brief moment that he would turn them away, then he noticed that he was looking intently at Sansa who was waiting silently behind him.

“Yes . . .” Ser Lewys said. “Our families are indeed friends. It wouldn’t be right for me to turn the famed Ser Jaime Lannister away, especially with a fair lady accompanying him.”

Jaime was still smiling at Ser Lewys but his desire to bash the man’s face in increased tenfold when he noticed him leering openly at Sansa. _If he tries so much as lay a hand on her, I’ll shove my sword down his throat_ , Jaime thought, still smiling brightly.

“Who is the charming young lady accompanying you, Ser Jaime? You did not say . . .”

Jaime’s smile became a frozen grin. “No. I did not say, Ser Lewys. This is the lady Ermesande Poole.”

Jaime could almost feel Sansa flinch behind him.

“Poole?” the young man said thoughtfully. “I do not know of her family.”

“No, you probably wouldn’t. The Pooles are from the north.”

“Ah,” Ser Lewys replied. As if that in itself explained why he did not know the name. At least, by saying Sansa was from the north Jaime knew it would cover for her northern accent and her being, well, _from_ the north.

Ser Lewys walked toward them with a swagger in his step Jaime didn’t like and he stopped beside Sansa. “Lady Ermesande,” he bowed with a flourish before taking her hand in his and laid a light kiss over her knuckles. Jaime could feel himself glare hard at the man while his smile was still frozen over his lips.

He saw Sansa blush a deep crimson, making Jaime actually jealous at her reaction to the young, handsome lordling.

Ser Lewys stared at her cut lip and her eye before looking at Jaime, a hard glint in his eyes. _He thinks I’m the one who did this to her_. “You are welcome to spend the night, Ser Jaime. Our steward will show you to your rooms, and then you are welcome in our great hall to share supper with us.”

“We’ll gladly follow your steward to our rooms,” Jaime replied, “but first we would like to prevail ourselves of our guest rights. Some bread and mead, perhaps?”

“Yes, of course,” Ser Lewys replied amiably enough, looking between an inwardly seething Jaime and a still blushing Sansa. “We shall offer you bread and mead once you are inside the castle.”

 _You better you little shit, and keep your hands off Sansa or you’ll get a taste of Oathkeeper._ Jaime gave the man another one of his dazzling smiles.

*****

“Are you ready, Lady Ermesande. May I come in?”

Jaime had been pacing the hallway outside Sansa’s room. They were expected for supper by Lord Wryght and Sansa was changing, a dress having been brought to her by a maid servant when a concerned Lord Wryght had heard of their misfortune on the road.

“Yes, please do come in Ser Jaime,” came Sansa’s voice through the door.

Jaime opened the heavy oaken door slowly and stepped into Sansa’s warm room. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, and a dour faced maid was finishing pinning her beautiful auburn locks into the complex court hairstyle from King’s Landing. The maid had also woven in a few white winter roses in her hair. Jaime’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her.

She was looking more beautiful than ever wearing a dress of pale green silk that brought out the red in her hair, and she had an amethyst set in a simple gold chain around her neck. _And whose gift was that?_ Jaime thought. He knew he wouldn’t like the answer to that question.  

“You look beautiful S- Lady Ermesande,” Jaime almost murmured and he saw her smile brightly at him. Then he cleared his throat. “Are you ready? Lord Wryght is probably waiting for us to start supper. And you must be famished.”

“Oh yes,” said Sansa. “I am. Thank you Ellie.”

The young maid servant gave a small curtsy and left the room.

Sansa stood up and turned round toward Jaime, a smile still on her lips. _Gods she is so beautiful_ , _despite the cut lip and the eye_. Jaime knew right then and there that he was bloody well gone and lost when his heart started hammering again in his chest.

He reached his hand toward her. “Come, my lady, let us make our way to the great hall.”

Sansa took his hand and she followed him down the serpentine steps to the great hall. He too had changed and was wearing a clean grey woolen shirt over his soft leather breeches. He was even wearing a dark blue velvet doublet that was a bit tight across the chest so he’d kept the laces opened. Jaime was told the clothes had belonged to Lord Wryght’s youngest son, Ser Regys Wryght, who’d valiantly died during the Battle of the Blackwater while defending King’s Landing against the forces of Stannis Baratheon.

As they entered the great hall, Jaime noticed Lord Wryght at once. The old man was seated in an ornate high-backed chair behind the long wooden table on the dais. He was an old man, perhaps older than his own Lord Father, Tywin Lannister, and thin besides. He had a great hooked nose, a thin face with piercing dark blue eyes and a sallow skin. His hair was snowy white and flowing down to his shoulders in thin, wispy strands. He was wearing expensive clothes of red velvet and silk and his fingers were covered in jeweled gold rings. He had a long gold chain with a gold filigree pendant hanging from his neck that seemed far too heavy for such a frail man since he was stooping forward and it made him look almost like a great vulture.

Next to Lord Wryght’s right hand side was his son, Ser Lewys, who was a stunning contrast to his father. He was dressed in fine dark woolen clothes and wasn’t wearing any jewelry. He had a sombre expression over his face that suddenly lighted up into a small smile when he glanced over at Sansa. Jaime’s stomach actually lurched dangerously in jealousy.

To the old man’s left was a stunningly beautiful woman all dressed-up in blue silks. She had a long triangular face with big dark eyes that looked at him intently. Her long dark hair was also styled the same way Sansa’s was – in the court style – and her neck was bejewelled with sparkling sapphires. She nodded slightly and smiled at Jaime.

To her left was the maester of Lord Wryght’s holdfast – a middle-aged man with a large gait and a balding head. His nose was bulbous and veiny and his lips were fleshy and made him look as if he was perpetually smiling. His heavy maester’s chain was hanging around his neck.

 _I believe it will be best if I not ask him for some moon tea_ , Jaime thought. _I have a feeling this maester won’t keep his mouth shut if I do._

Ser Lewys rose from his chair while Lord Wryght remained seated, his long thin fingers drumming the surface of the table as if he were displeased with them. “Welcome Ser Jaime, Lady Ermesande.” He bowed deeply. Jaimed bowed his head and Sansa did a curtsy beside him. “Let me please introduce you to my sister, the Lady Alys,” he said, his hand sweeping toward his sister.

The beautiful woman smiled at Jaime and raised an eyebrow at Sansa, eyeing her up and down. Jaime felt Sansa fidget uncomfortably beside him. “Next to my sister is Maester Eames. He has been with our family these past ten years. Anything you need, you may ask him. He also takes care of the ravens if you need a message sent out.”

“Lady Alys,” Jaime bowed courteously toward the dark haired beauty who was still smiling at him (Jaime suddenly thought that he only wanted one woman to smile at him and this woman was Sansa) and he nodded to Maester Eames who nodded back to him with a slight smirk on his fleshy lips. Sansa would later remark to him she thought they looked like worms – much to Jaime’s complete amusement.

“Thank you, Ser Lewys.”

Then Ser Lewys pointed for them to come sit by his side. “Lady Ermesande, I have taken the liberty to reserve the seat next to me for you.”

“Thank you, Ser Lewys,” Sansa replied sweetly.

The young lordling pulled the chair next to him and waved at Sansa to sit beside him and for Jaime to take the seat next to hers. Sansa smiled again at Ser Lewys and took the proffered seat while Jaime sat himself to Sansa’s left.

Jaime Lannister was fuming. The Seven take him but he was actually jealous of Ser Lewys’ very open attentions toward Sansa, and her blushing reactions to him.

As soon as he and Sansa were seated at Lord Wryght’s table, servants started bringing in food, starting with a creamy leek soup. Then there were courses of meat: Lamb cooked in mint; pigeon pies baked with some bacon and onions; hens slowly roasted with grilled chestnuts and a prune sauce. Then the dessert arrived and small lemoncakes and strawberries were brought in – much to Sansa’s delight.

The wine, and the ale, was flowing freely. There were vintages from Dorne and the Arbor and Jaime was quite happy to fill his cup with Arbor gold cup after cup after cup, and he was well on his way to being quite pleasantly drunk.

During all that time, Ser Lewys kept on chatting Sansa up and Jaime noticed how Lord Wryght’s young son was taking all of Sansa’s attention, his hand often brushing against her arm – regaling her with stories of his feats of arms and glorious deeds while Jaime wanted nothing more but to snort loudly at the man’s clear (and pathetic) attempts at seducing her, and punch him in the face.

He was well into his cups (having drunk an inordinate amount of wine) when he suddenly rose from his chair and bid Lord Wryght’s indulgence, claiming he and the Lady Ermesande should be heading for bed since they had to depart early the next morning to resume their travels toward Casterly Rock.

Lord Wryght chuckled, speaking for the first time since Jaime and Sansa had arrived. “Why in such a hurry to depart and die, Ser Jaime?” The man asked in a high-pitched voice. “The Black Wolves are scouring the land along the Gold Road only a few days’ ride from here, we were recently told. They are everywhere, and they strike whenever you think the road is safe. You’d be safer by turning back from whence you came and taking a ship that would take you all the way round south of Dorne on the Summer Sea and then up west toward Casterly Rock by way of the Sunset Sea.”

Jaime made himself smile pleasantly enough at Lord Wryght. “I thank you for your valuable advice, Lord Wryght. But it cannot be helped. We are to be on our way tomorrow morning. I have hopes my men will have reached us by then besides, so the Black Wolves won’t dare attack us.”

At this the old man chuckled even more, the sound of his laughter sounding like a cackle. It made Jaime’s hair at the back of his neck rise on end.

*****

Jaime couldn’t bloody sleep. Despite the fact that he’d drunk quite a lot of wine (in fact, he’d drunk way too much), the one thing he desired above all else at the moment – besides Sansa – was completely eluding him. He rose from his bed and sat on its edge, his feet touching the cold flagstone floor, making his skin rise in goose prickles all over his body. He couldn’t wait to leave this thrice-damned holdfast, couldn’t wait to take her away from here.

The thought of Sansa made Jaime’s heart clench painfully in his chest. His feelings for the Stark girl were a complete jumble of emotions that ranged from a deep-seethed need to protect her to something that felt almost like love to him. But he couldn’t be – shouldn’t be – in love with Sansa Stark. Still, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he did have feelings for her. _The Stranger take me, am I in love with Sansa_? He shook his head almost in disbelief but he had been jealous of Ser Lewys’ attentions toward her earlier to the point where he seriously considered shoving Oathkeeper down the man’s throat.

When he’d taken her back to her bedchamber after supper, all the while she’d laughed and giggled about Maester Eames’ wormy lips, she’d then looked at him expectantly, no doubt waiting for him to join her in her room. But Jaime had only bowed down stiffly, bidding her a good night before turning on his heels and entering the room adjoining hers. The whole time his heart had beat like a drum in his chest, while he knew he’d just hurt Sansa.

He rose from his bed and combed his hands through his hair before he started pacing the length of his room.

After some long minutes spent deep in thought, he’d made his decision. Opening his door slowly, he peered left and right into the hallway. Everything was quiet, and there were a few ensconced torches still flickering an orangey light on the stone walls. Jaime closed the door gently behind him and made his way towards Sansa’s bedchamber.

Stopping in front of the big oaken door he laid the back of his hand against it, his knuckles brushing against the wood. He was about to knock on Sansa’s door when he saw Lady Alys appear from the serpentine staircase. She was clad only in a nightgown, her dark hair falling loosely about her.

When she saw him she smiled. “Am I disturbing you, Ser Jaime? If Lady Ermesande is waiting for you, I shall leave you both to your . . . dalliance,” she smiled knowingly.

Jaime didn’t like the look she gave him but he still smiled.

“Not at all, Lady Alys. I just wanted to make sure that the Lady Ermesande was alright.”

“Clad only in your shift and your breeches and at this late hour, Ser Jaime?” Lady Alys asked him, her eyebrow cocked. Jaime narrowed his eyes, pointedly not answering her question.

“And what are you doing here clad only in your nightgown, Lady Alys? At this hour?” He smiled his golden smile at her.

“Why, Ser Jaime, I was coming here to seduce you. I’m very sorry we did not get to speak during supper earlier.” She smiled up at him, her dark eyes lighting up. She stepped closer to him and laid a light warm hand against his chest. “Maybe we can have a . . . discussion in your bedchamber now?”

Jaime slowly raised his harm and took her hand in his, pulling it away from his chest.

“I believe not, Lady Alys. If I were you, I’d return to your own bedchamber. I would not dream of touching Lord Wryght’s daughter right under his roof,” he smiled thinly at her.

She looked at him silently before sizing him up and down again. “A pity, really,” she replied, then turned around and left him behind in the hallway, swaying her hips alluringly and shooting him one last backward glance before she disappeared down the serpentine.

When she was gone, Jaime turned again towards Sansa’s door and hesitated. Then he thought better of it. Sighing loudly, he returned to his bedchamber.

*****

The next morning, Jaime and Sansa quickly made their goodbyes to Ser Lewys who had come to see them (or rather Sansa) off. Jaime couldn’t wait to leave the holdfast and get back on the road. His men hadn’t made it to Lord Wryght’s castle yet, so he thought most of the bridges were probably impracticable, and with the rain that had started falling again, this time in droves, he feared it would be a while before his squire Podrick, and the rest of the Red Cloaks, would be able to catch up to them.

*****

“I heard you last night,” Sansa said to Jaime, her voice even, though he could hear it faltering a little in her throat.

Jaime looked at her quizzically. “Heard me?” He cocked his head toward her.

“Yes, on the other side of my door. You were talking to Lady Alys.”

 _Shit_ , Jaime thought. _Why was Sansa up? Was she waiting for me?_ “Yes . . . I was,” he said carefully.

“Why were you outside my door? Were you coming to see me?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t lie to her.

“Then why didn’t you, after you turned her away?”

Jaime remained silent for a few seconds. “I didn’t want to disturb your sleep, Sansa.”

She looked at him intently from under the hood of her cloak, the rain still falling around them. “You wouldn’t have disturbed me . . . Jaime.”

“Still . . . I didn’t know if I should. I didn’t want to presume . . .”

“Presume what?”

He sighed. Presume what, exactly? That perhaps she felt the same way about him? That maybe, just maybe, Lord Eddard Stark’s beautiful eldest daughter had feelings for him? She was still quite young, and though Joffrey had taken her maidenhead and had fucked her countless times already (and beaten her repeatedly), he was the first man who’d ever . . . _made love_ to her and to have shown her any compassion, any emotion besides hatred, disgust, disdain.

“Sansa . . .” he started. But before he could continue on his stallion suddenly reared wildly off its hind legs. “What the . . .”

The huge horse fell onto its side, taking Jaime with him to the wet and muddy ground. He barely managed to roll away from the horse before the stallion could crush him beneath its massive weight, black wet dirt splashing everywhere.

He heard Sansa scream.

“JAIME!”

Jaime staggered to his feet and saw that an arrow had gone through his horse’s chest. The poor beast was dying as scarlet blood gushed out of the stallion’s wound, but Jaime’s adrenaline now pumped into his veins, sending a jolt of energy through him. His sword was already in his hand, and he was looking left and right while the pouring rain that was still falling in droves all around them all but blinded him as mud also ran into his eyes.

“Sansa! Go! As fast as you can, go!” He was desperately trying to rinse the mud off his face, but it kept running back into his eyes.

“No,” Sansa’s voice was shrill. “I’m not leaving you!”

“Sansa we’re under attack, go, now!”

“I told you I’m not leaving you!”

Why did Sansa have to be so stupid right now? Wasn’t she realizing that if the outlaws caught them both that _he_ would worry about her? They would realize soon enough she was his, and when that happened, they would simply not hesitate to hurt her in order to hurt the infamous Kingslayer, while they would simply ransom him to his Lord Father. There was the possibility they would also ransom Sansa as well, but it was more than likely that she could be in for a bit of a rape. And right now, the thought of those disgusting outlaws laying one finger on her was making him positively ill, sick with worry, and very, very angry.

Sansa’s mare was literally prancing and Jaime could see she had lost control again of her own horse. No time to think about that now. He heard cries all around them as another arrow flew by, embedding itself in a nearby tree, a few mere inches away from Jaime’s head while a second one fizzed by him. “Come out and fight me you cowards!” Jaime screamed at the top of his lungs. “Are you children or are you _men_!” Shit, he felt as if he’d chaffed his voice raw.

Then one of the tallest men Jaime had ever seen in his life besides The Mountain That Rides – Ser Gregor Clegane – suddenly seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was dressed all in brown leathers and black furs and had long black hair with bells that jingled as he moved. He was wielding an arakh which seemed to sing as he was rushing toward Jaime with a loud growl.

 _Dothraki_ , Jaime only had time to think.

Jaime sidestepped to the left and raised his Valyrian sword Oathkeeper to block the downward swing of that arakh. Steel on steel clanged loudly and Jaime could feel the vibrations running through his entire arm and up to his shoulder and it rattled his teeth. _Shit, he’s as strong as he looks; strong like a bloody bull_.

He rolled away from the massive man’s continuous assault in the rain and mud as the two of them started a dance of thrust and parry, with the Dothraki having the upper hand due to his size; but Jaime had speed and experience on his side, and he managed to avoid most of the man’s deadly cuts and blows.

The Dothraki was deadly, and Jaime knew he had to kill him quickly or the massive man would wear him down and he would be done for. He was thinking strategy when he saw another tall man out of the corner of his eye make for Sansa’s horse. The man grabbed the reins of her mare and yanked her down from her saddle roughly by the arm while she whimpered and screamed his bloody name. “No! No! _Please!_ Take your hands off me! _Jaime!_ ”

For one brief instant, Jaime’s attention was drawn away from the huge Dothraki. _Sansa’s in danger,_ he thought wildly, all thoughts about his own safety gone. The only thing he cared about was her: Sansa. Then he saw the arakh swing down and Jaime Lannister suddenly screamed as he felt the worst pain he had ever experienced in his life.


	5. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now prisoners of the Black Wolves, Sansa tries to reason with their leader as Jaime fights for his life.

**Sansa**

Sansa was exhausted. They’d been riding hard for the past seven days, stopping only to eat and sleep. They’d finally crossed south of the Blackwater Rush proper on a crossing barge six days earlier, and Jaime had only gotten worse as the days flew by, his body being now racked with fever. His bloody stump had started smelling a foul odor that caught in Sansa’s throat and almost made her want to wretch.

The outlaws had tied them both together face to face with rough hempen rope and onto her mare. Try as she might, Sansa could barely move an inch with Jaime’s body pressed tightly against her.

She looked silently at the four outlaws surrounding them on their horses, her eyes darting left and right in fear. Her body was rigid with tension in the saddle that was making her back and shoulders ache painfully.

At first, Jaime had talked up a storm to stop them from raping her; revealing that she was Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, and that any of her living family members – be they her dead mother’s brother Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun, or her great-uncle the Blackfish, or even her aunt Lysa Arryn in the Vale – would gladly pay a king’s (or rather a queen’s) ransom to have her back unmaimed and _untouched_ – or they’d probably have them all hunted down and killed.

Jaime’s strategy of revealing themselves to the Black Wolves seemed to work well enough when their leader, a Lorathi named Donal Antos – a tall, shrewd, and rather insightful man pointedly threatened the rest of his group of outlaws with a hanging if either one of them laid one finger on the ‘little queen,’ as he’d taken to calling her almost affectionately, or on the Kingslayer. But being an outlaw, he also obviously liked the idea of ransoming the two of them for some gold, and lots of it – just like Jaime had mumbled to her under his breath. “See Sansa, they want the gold more than they want your cunt. This way they’ll ransom you and they’ll leave you alone.”

As for Jaime, he reminded Antos and his men that Casterly Rock was basically built on gold and that, as he told the leader of the Black Wolves, “A Lannister always pays his debts.”

_Jaime._

Sansa looked at the Kingslayer with worry etched plainly across her face.

His head was lying limply over her shoulder, lolling sideways with each of the mare’s gaits. She could feel how his brow was damp and cold all at once, and his breath smelled foul (so was hers probably for that matter).

He was mumbling incoherently, talking about Cersei’s betrayals (he kept repeating she was fucking everyone in the Red Keep) and Tyrion and his father, Lord Tywin. Sometimes he would even mention Joffrey, calling him a little shit and a monster and a whoreson (making Sansa blush at the words he used to describe Joff), but most of the times, Jaime spoke about her, mumbling her name, telling her he would keep her safe, that Joff would never touch her again. Then he would become silent for long stretches of time that made Sansa worried sick about him.

Sansa recalled with intense clarity the moment when the huge Dothraki – Rhe’eko – had cut off Jaime’s hand with his arakh, and the chilling scream of pain that had ripped through the Kingslayer’s throat, reverberating through the tall trees around them and sending a murder of crows flying away to loud caws and the frightening beating of wings black as night.

Sansa desperately knew that if she’d only listened to him and fled – like he’d begged her to do – then maybe none of this would have happened, and Jaime would never have lost his sword hand. She knew she would never forgive herself for what happened to him, and she feared Jaime would never forgive _her_ as well.

She remembered how scarlet blood had gushed from his severed hand in frightening quantity and how Jaime had cradled his arm, bent over in pain and almost weeping before heaving the content of his stomach onto the mossy ground. “Help me, gods, help me!” He’d moaned, right before he thankfully lost consciousness.

Sansa’s heart had dropped to her stomach and then she’d screamed and managed to wrench herself free from her aggressor’s tight grip around her wrist before running to Jaime, kneeling beside him and cradling his head gently while she sobbed uncontrollably. “Jaime, please no, Jaime,” was all she could say, her hands stroking the sides of his face in a bid to try and ease his pain away while she knew it was completely useless as she held his unconscious form in her lap, her lips pressing against his forehead over and over again.      

Then the man who’d dragged Sansa off her mare, the leader of the Black Wolves himself, Donal Antos, had made her bandage his bloody stump, wrapping a piece of cloth tight around Jaime’s wrist to stop the bleeding, while Jaime had drifted in and out of consciousness.

Sansa had been terrified of being raped by the outlaws who shot her some hungry looks, leering at her openly, giving her lustful stares. Sansa was very much aware how bloodlust could awaken a man’s passions and desires. She remembered how she’d almost been raped during the bread riots, before the Hound had found and saved her. How Queen Cersei had told her about men and their bloodlust and that she would be “A slice of cake, just ready to be eaten.”

But then, Jaime had come to and managed to slur quite heavily (and loudly) that she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the rightful Queen in the North, and that he was Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lord Commander of King Joffrey’s Kingsguard and his uncle. She’d seen how Antos’ eyes had lit up greedily at the news, and how he’d probably started assessing just how much gold he could likely get by ransoming both her and the Kingslayer.

At first, Jaime had kept laying on the charm and the cocky behavior, despite the atrocious pain he was obviously in, but soon enough a fever took hold of him, and Jaime became unusually sullen and silent. It was soon followed by debilitating chills that started to rack his body, and his bloody stump slowly became foul-smelling.

Sansa was no maester, but she knew Jaime’s wound was badly infected, despite trying to do the best she could to try and keep it clean, remembering some of Maester Luwin’s lessons: she poured boiled wine over his wound and changed his dressings every day. Each time, Jaime had screamed or gritted his teeth together in pain, violently punching his thigh repeatedly with his left fist before sometimes passing out – much to Sansa’s relief. At least this way, Jaime wasn’t hurting.

She knew they had to find a maester, and quick at that, to treat Jaime’s wound or he would die. Sansa realized she wasn’t ready to give up on him yet, wasn’t ready for him to die, for him to leave her – she thought quite selfishly – and her hopes rested with the leader of the Black Wolves himself, Donal Antos, whom she knew liked her – she’d noticed how he would look at her when he thought she wasn’t looking his way. After all, Sansa knew she was a beautiful woman and young at that. She wasn’t so stupid as Queen Cersei and Joff always made her feel to believe that she wasn’t aware of the effect she had on most men.

When they finally stopped for the day in a small clearing and made camp, the outlaws untied them from Sansa’s mare. Jaime barely made it off the garron on his own power before staggering dangerously, barely able to slip into his bedroll while he was being closely watched by the others. Sansa looked worriedly at him as she saw him shake under the blankets after he’d pulled them up to his chin.

Screwing up her courage, she went to sit by Antos’ side, drawing some whistles from the rest of the outlaws. Sansa pointedly ignored them and smoothed the creases of her dress nervously with her hands before sitting down beside the leader of the Black Wolves on a gnarled tree stump.

She folded her hands in her lap like the proper lady she was.

“And what does the little queen want?” Donal Antos asked her, barely even glancing up at her in acknowledgement while he built and started a fire.

Then, sitting himself on the same tree stump next to her, he began to peel and cut an apple with his hunting knife. He started eating it while Sansa’s tummy rumbled loudly in hunger. Her mouth had even started watering at the sight of the fruit.

Sansa then stared at the long, slim blade he was using (it was dirty and had some dry blood on it, making her suddenly ill) before she eyed him as discretely as she could, taking in his handsome chiseled profile, the thick dark hair that fell in waves to his shoulders, the clean-shaven jaw. He was wearing dark woolen clothes and had a black cloak made of what Sansa believed to be wolf fur. In fact, all of the outlaws had the same cloak. _That’s why they’re called the Black Wolves, because of their black wolf fur cloaks._

Then she peered closely at Donal Antos himself. _He must be one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen,_ Sansa thought, looking at him thoughtfully _, but his heart is rotten. As rotten as Joffrey’s, no doubt. Still, I need his help to save Jaime, the Seven help me._

“Ser Donal,” she started.

That drew a throaty laugh from Antos, followed by his companions, making Sansa’s face become hot in deep embarrassment.

There was Robett Swyft, the archer of the group who’d killed Jaime’s horse and who looked anything if not average. He was of medium height and had a medium built and short cropped dirty blond hair with brown eyes. His face was square with a large stubbly jaw and a large, flat nose.

Robett liked to brag about the fights he’d been in, explaining that was how he got his short, pudgy nose, pointing at it to Sansa so she could take a closer look at where his nose was broken in two places, much to her disgust. “I got this in a fight with Ser Lawrence Meadows of the Grassy Vale. A younger cousin of the family, green and stupid. I killed the man of course, but not before a hard fight.” Still, she hid her aversion well, cooing appreciatively at the man’s prowess, making him grin at her like a fool and showing her how half his teeth were rotten.

The Dothraki who had cut off Jaime’s hand was Rhe’eko, a mountain of a man who spoke only one or two words of the common tongue (mostly yes and no) and answered only to Donal Antos. He reminded her of the monstrous Ser Gregor Clegane, the Hound’s elder brother. He was as large and as tall as The Mountain That Rides, and his hair was a long dark braid interwoven with bells that chimed and jingled every time he walked or moved. Sansa wondered why the man was here, following Antos instead of being back in Essos with his khalassar. She knew enough of Essos history to know that his very long braid meant he was as yet undefeated in combat, as Dothrakis were known to cut their braids only when defeated.

Last, but not least, was Xenios Andres: a short Braavosi with curly red hair who was a master swordsman, and a mute at that. He reminded her of her little sister Arya’s water dancer master, Syrio Forel, even though the two men looked nothing alike. Thinking about Arya made her infinitely sad and Sansa wished she knew where her little sister was and she hoped she was still alive somewhere. _I will find you Arya, I promise._ _I’m so sorry I lied about the butcher’s boy. Sorry I took Joffrey’s side._ She didn’t know how, or when, but Sansa decided that she would find her wild sister, regretting the harsh words she’d often exchanged with her. _If Arya is still alive, she’s the only sibling I have left besides Jon who’s so far away north on the Wall._

As for the rest of the Black Wolves, Sansa knew they were all scattered around south of the Blackwater Rush, raping and pillaging just like the dwarf had said, but she had no idea just how many men exactly made up the sellsword company; the outlaws never shared any information in her presence.

After the laughter had died down, Sansa started again. “S- Donal,” she corrected herself. She knew Donal Antos was no knight, and should have addressed him accordingly, but old habits died hard and her septa had taught Sansa her courtesies quite well. They’d saved her life in King’s Landing on many an occasion and they were so ingrained in her that she sometimes couldn’t stop herself from chirping her courtesies left and right, just like the Hound had often reproached her.

Donal Antos turned his gaze away from the fire and looked straight at her. “Lady Sansa, what can Donal Antos do for you?” Then he looked behind him and started shouting: “Robett, go hunt us some hares or something. We need food. We don’t want the little queen – or the Kingslayer – to starve to death now, do we?”

Without a word, the archer grabbed his crossbow and, pulling his hood over his head, he disappeared into the thick brush of the forest in order to find some game for their supper.

Sansa took a deep breath and looked Donal Antos in the eye.

“We need to take the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, who’s also King Joffrey’s Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, to a maester and soon,” she told him, her eyes looking at him intently. “If not, he will die, and you won’t be able to ransom him to his Lord Father, the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister.”

“I am well aware of all his titles and who his bastard father is, little queen,” he told her with a thin smirk over his face.

Sansa felt herself flush in embarrassment again and started to fidget on the tree stump before continuing, “Well, in that case it must be done fast, because if Ser Jaime dies you’ll have the might of King’s Landing, Casterly Rock, and Highgarden hunting you down.”

Donal Antos stood quiet for some long minutes. He’d picked up a large stick of dried wood and was now playing with the fire, pushing at the burning logs to try and breathe more life into it. “I don’t want the Kingslayer dead, my lady, I want him alive so I can ransom him to his father. The . . . business with his hand was an unfortunate accident.”

Sansa looked at him with a frown upon her brow. “An unfortunate accident? Your man cut off Ser Jaime’s hand in an unfair fight!” She felt herself simmering in anger, the wolf in her slowly coming out.

“There was nothing unfair about that fight, Lady Sansa,” Donal Antos replied harshly. “Your man simply wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing.”

 _Yes, because of you,_ she wanted to shout but held her tongue. Jaime had been distracted when she cried out to him after Antos had pulled her down roughly from her mare. And that distraction had cost him his sword hand and perhaps even his life. Sansa wasn’t about to forgive herself, or the outlaws, for that matter. But she said nothing of this, keeping her counsel close to her heart.

She heard Jaime stifle a whimper from his bedroll and she looked up at him worriedly again while her heart skipped a beat in fear for him before turning her gaze back to Donal Antos, a look of fierce determination newly formed upon her countenance.

“Please. We need to get Ser Jaime to a maester soon,” Sansa pleaded again with him, and she laid her hand lightly over his arm, her eyes peering intently into his, searching his face for any indication about whether or not he would help her. That he would help Jaime.

He looked at her hand for one moment and then returned her piercing gaze. His eyes were an intense blue: much like her own, and she could feel him stare right into her soul, sending a shiver up her spine. Then he sighed before resuming poking at the fire. “We should be arriving at a small holdfast by tomorrow midday, little queen,” he said gruffly. “There is a maester there. He’ll be able to take care of your Lion of Lannister and perhaps save his life.”

Sansa squeezed his arm and smiled at him, a deep wave of relief washing over her. “Thank you.” A lady never forgot her courtesies. Sansa knew Septa Mordane would have been proud.

*****

The next day, Sansa spied the holdfast Donal Antos had told her about appear on the far horizon. She squinted her eyes, her face screwing up almost in a grimace as she tried to make it out, and noticed that it was more a round tower standing alone and desolate upon a high ridge, than a proper holdfast. Still, Sansa was keen to arrive as soon as possible so that the maester could finally take a close look at Jaime’s stump and help if he could.

She’d been fervently praying day and night to the old gods and the new that he would live, sleeping with him in the same bedroll at night to try to keep him warm while his body was shaking almost uncontrollably with debilitating chills. It didn’t help matters that the weather had turned cold, a small layer of snow sometimes covering the frozen hard ground.

The outlaws still tied them together, but Jaime appeared to feel slightly better today. His brow seemed less clammy and damp, and the chills that had plagued him these past few days were mostly gone. In fact, the Kingslayer was almost back to his cocky self, shooting jabs at the outlaws who all but ignored him.

But the stump still smelled foul to Sansa, telling her that it was now a matter of life and death that it be seen to quickly.

It took them two more hours to reach the holdfast. Then they entered a small and deserted grey stoned courtyard, the sound of their horses’ hoofs clanging loudly on the cobblestones. Deserted, that was, until a tall and thin maester with long grey hair seemingly appeared out of nowhere to greet the arrival of the outlaws and their prisoners. The chain of his order was hanging heavily around his neck and Sansa could see the many links that made it up, telling her he was accomplished in many disciplines; including the silver link that told her he was well-versed in medicine, and even one she thought was made of Valyrian steel, making Sansa believe this maester also dabbled in magic and the occult, just as Maester Luwin had.

Donal Antos unhorsed swiftly as soon as he stopped his huge grey horse in front of the very regal-looking maester. “Willis!” He clasped the man’s arm before they embraced each other.

Sansa eyed them with interest, wondering at the relationship between the two men. Although Maester Willis looked to be in his fifties and Antos in his mid-thirties, Sansa could see a slight resemblance between the two men. _Perhaps they are brothers?_ She thought. _Or at least kin._

Donal Antos turned toward Jaime and Sansa. “These are our prisoners, Willis. And quality, at that. They are the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the Queen in the North, and Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer himself. I need you to look at the Lion’s arm. Bloody Rhe’eko cut his hand off and the flesh smells of putrefaction. He’s no bloody use to me dead.”

“Your Dothraki is strong and big and fierce but he’s also a mindless beast, Donal. Why do you keep him?” Asked Maester Willis, his brow raised quizzically.

Antos shrugged at the maester. “As you said, he’s strong and big and fierce and I need him.” Then Willis made his way to Jaime and Sansa and he tried to take a quick look at the stump. But Jaime wasn’t going to make matters easy for the maester.

“Take your hands off me, ser,” Jaime almost slurred and Sansa gave him another worried look. _Oh no! He still has a fever . . ._

Maester Willis ignored him and grabbed Jaime’s arm in an iron grip and smelled his stump, making Sansa queasy at the sight. “Yes . . . the flesh is putrefying.” Then he pressed the back of his hand to Jaime’s forehead. “And he has a slight fever. Donal, we need to get him to my solar.”

Antos gave an order to Rhe’eko in Dothraki to help Jaime off the mare, and the massive man cut at the ropes binding Sansa and the Kingslayer together before he grabbed and lifted him as if he weighed nothing. Jaime was too ill and weak to fight off the massive man dragging him unceremoniously off the horse.

“Please be careful,” Sansa pleaded even though she knew the huge man couldn’t understand a word she was saying. She heard Antos bark something in Dothraki and the big man only nodded, the bells in his hair chiming softly as he did so.

He half-carried half-dragged Jaime up a flight of stairs, with the Kingslayer cursing up a storm. Sansa followed closely behind while Maester Willis showed them to his solar.

The room was big and airy and it was littered with books and parchments and quills and other strange things Sansa had never seen before. In a corner of the room was a small cage that held a few ravens.

“Sit him here,” Maester Willis pointed at a high back wooden chair near his work table. Rhe’eko almost dumped Jaime abruptly on the chair and this one grunted in pure agony. “Careful you stupid great auroch,” he grumbled through gritted teeth while shooting him a murderous look that was glazed over with fever.

The maester shuffled his feet to a wardrobe in another corner of the room and she saw him rummage through it noisily, mumbling to himself as he searched through dozens of items. He finally took out some vials and a leather pouch which he opened on his work table. In it, Sansa saw knives of all shapes and sizes, and her eyes opened wide at the sight of so many instruments.

“My lady,” he turned toward Sansa. “Would you be willing to assist me? I fear Rhe’eko here would make a terrible assistant.” The maester made a face at the Dothraki who glowered back at him, reminding Sansa of Sandor Clegane for an odd reason.

“Yes, yes of course. Please, tell me what to do,” she said almost in a whisper.

“See that piece of wood over there by the white book?” Maester Willis jutted his chin in the direction of his work table and the massive book that was opened amidst dozens of old, crinkly parchments.

Sansa glanced over the littered table and noticed a long piece of wood that looked suspiciously like weirwood. She nodded “Yes.”

“Put it in the Kingslayer’s mouth, my lady, and make him bite hard on it. I will cut away the rotten flesh and clean his wound before sewing him back. This will hurt as all the seven hells. Rhe’eko will hold him by the shoulders but I need you to keep Ser Jaime’s attention right on you by talking to him,” he told her kindly. “Can you do that Lady Sansa?”

Sansa slowly nodded.

*****

Maester Willis had done some good work by cutting away the putrefied flesh of Jaime’s stump, cleaning it with hot boiled wine, and sewing the healthy flesh back together. He’d given him a bit of milk of the poppy though the Kingslayer had at first refused the draught. But Maester Willis had insisted that he take some, lest the pain be too great and he’d faint.

Even with the milk of the poppy, Jaime had passed out, and he’d had to be carried upstairs into the room by Antos and his men, while Sansa fretted over him. As soon as they laid Jaime on the large bed in one of the holdfast’s higher bedchambers, the outlaws had locked them in and posted the Braavosi at their door, but Sansa thought it completely unnecessary and ridiculous since there was no chance in all the seven hells that she was leaving Jaime behind, and Jaime Lannister wasn’t in any state to travel, let alone _escape_.

Sansa busied herself with taking off his armor, his booths, his tunic, his breeches, shift and smallclothes with difficulty, struggling with removing each piece of clothing as Jaime was lying completely limp on the bed before leaving him completely naked.

Sighing deeply, she went to the washbasin where she rinsed a clean cloth into the cool water and started washing him gently, lovingly. Jaime was slipping in and out of consciousness the entire time, mumbling incomprehensible words as she cleaned him up. When she’d finished, she barely managed to get him back into his shift and smallclothes.

He reached his good hand to her to drag her down with him to the bed – making her gasp in surprise – before showering her with warm open-mouthed kisses. Sansa struggled feebly against him but managed to get back on her feet. She then searched her bag for a twig and proceeded to clean his teeth as best she could, while his teeth were clattering madly, with some crushed mint leaves that Maester Willis had given her.

After she’d finished cleaning Jaime’s teeth, Sansa then cleaned her own and felt so much the better for it. She then took off her clothes and proceeded to wash herself too, her teeth rattling in the cold, frigid air of the room. After she’d finished, she found some wood and kindling left beside the large fireplace and, after a few unsuccessful attempts (she’d never lit a fire in her life), she managed to start a fire and felt rather proud of herself as it crackled loudly and the room was suddenly filled with warmth and light.

Next, she took a jug of water and filled a cup. Taking another clean cloth, she dabbed it into the water and brought it to Jaime’s lips, pressing the cool liquid into his mouth. He was almost too feverish to drink the proffered liquid but even the smallest trickle going down his throat was better than no water at all.

She dabbed once more at his clammy brow with the cloth she’d used earlier to wash him before she climbed into the bed and slid under the covers beside Jaime wearing only her shift and her smallclothes. He was lying on his back, still shivering, his teeth still clattering wildly, and Sansa pressed her body flush against his to help keep him warm, her left leg going over his thighs, her left arm wrapping itself around his shoulders. She nuzzled his clammy neck, rubbing her nose against his feverish skin, when she fell asleep.

*****

The room was still warm but it was now mostly dark when Sansa was woken up by a pressing erection at her backside. She could feel Jaime’s hard manhood almost between her buttocks. Not only that, but he was also moving his hips intently against her and grunting noisily as he did so.

Even though she was surprised at first, Sansa’s womanhood started to ache dully and she felt a rush of wetness seep between her thighs while her nipples puckered into tiny hard peaks under the fabric of her shift.

“Jaime . . . ” she moaned as she turned her head toward him.

The moonlight was spilling through the lone window in the room and Sansa saw Jaime’s face. His grey-blue eyes were opened but they looked clouded and unseeing. His lips were pursed back and his ashen blond hair was damp and sticking to his brow and the sides of his face in clammy strands. Sansa reached her hand to touch his brow and it was hot. _Very_ hot. He was still feverish. _He’s not even awake_ , she realized.

Awake or not, it didn’t stop Jaime from reaching for her shift and dragging it high over her hips in a bunch, before his warm, left hand tugged at her smallclothes, trying to pull them down. He was even trying to use his bandaged stump, unaware in the throes of his fever that his hand was gone.

Sansa didn’t know what to do or how to react. She couldn’t obviously reason with him, and Jaime was insistent, pulling at her smallclothes again, struggling with her undergarment. She wiggled under the covers and pushed them down along her legs and managed to take them off. She felt his hard and warm manhood press heavily between her arse cheeks, the sticky fluid that came out of its tip smearing her lower back. Jaime had somehow managed to free his engorged member from his smallclothes and it was jutting out, hard as Valyrian steel and warm, so warm.

Sansa moaned.

Jaime nuzzled at the back of her neck and bit down hard on her soft flesh, making her yelp in surprise and pain. Then he roughly held her in place with his stump, which elicited a grunt of pain from his parted lips, while Sansa’s heart started pounding hard in her chest in anticipation.

Next she knew, Jaime’s hard manhood was pressing between her wet folds and, growling, he entered her from behind in one rough push, making her gasp in unexpected pleasure when she felt his stiff length fill her up.

He grunted in her ear, his breath hot on her skin, and started snapping his hips hard against her. Sansa was whimpering with every single thrust of his hard manhood inside her and, raising one of her hands to her breasts, she started pinching her nipples while her other hand went down between her legs to start rubbing the small bundle of flesh and nerves that was rapidly becoming hard under her fingertips.

Jaime was still fucking into her wildly, no real rhythm to his pounding hips. Still, it was swiftly bringing her to the sweet edge of her release and Sansa was panting hard in complete ecstasy. Jaime was nipping at her neck, mumbling more incoherent words into her ear, while his hard shaft was bringing her an incredible amount of pleasure as it slid wetly in and out of her, despite the fact that he was obviously still unconscious of what he was doing.

As his hard manhood was hitting a wonderful place inside her repeatedly, Sansa’s moans slowly turned to small cries of pleasure and she threw her right leg back over his hips and reached her arm behind her, her fingers entwining themselves into the hair at the back of Jaime’s neck while her other hand was still rubbing her nub heatedly, her hips moving in time with his.

“Oh, yes, please, Jaime,” she moaned even though she knew he couldn’t probably hear her, but she couldn’t stop herself. “More, harder, oh gods!”

Jaime’s grunts had turned into loud groans of pleasure and his hips were snapping hard and fast inside her while his arm was holding her close to him, a fine sheen of sweat covering his body. Almost unexpectedly, Sansa felt her release hit her hard as it slammed into her, the muscles in her womanhood convulsing violently as she peaked so high she was gasping for breath and her eyelids fluttered wildly.

She felt Jaime’s manhood start to pulse inside her, moaning and groaning as he came. Sansa grabbed at him, not wanting him to let go, even if he was to all intents and purposes still very much asleep and unconscious.

Jaime was still grinding his hips against her, even though he’d already reached his peak, and he started biting at her earlobe while growling, sending some wonderful shivers up and down her spine.

After some long minutes, Jaime finally stilled behind her and Sansa heard his breathing become deep and even. Shifting slightly onto her side, she peered closely at his face. For the first time since he’d lost his hand, it looked peaceful, almost tranquil. Laying the back of her hand softly against his forehead, Sansa noticed that Jaime’s fever was finally gone.


	6. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime struggles with the loss of his sword hand and discovers that the leader of the Black Wolves is not who he thought he was.

**Jaime**

Jaime had woken up in Sansa’s arms. She was so warm, nudged against him, with her slender arm wrapped about his chest and shoulders, her long leg thrown over his thighs, that he didn’t want to move and risk waking her up from her deep slumber—even though he had a pressing need to relieve himself.

His throat felt raw too and he was thirsty, so thirsty.

Lowering his eyes to her, he saw the steady rise and fall of her chest under the blankets. Her soft auburn hair was spilled all over his left arm and over parts of his chest. He noticed how her long eyelashes cast a soft shadow over her rosy cheeks.

Jaime’s breath caught in his throat until a sharp pain in his right arm made him wince and grit his teeth, his body going rigid with pain.

_My hand. I lost my sword hand._

Slowly, he brought his right arm to his face, to see if it was true, that it wasn’t a terrible nightmare he was having, all the while hoping that it _was_ a dream, and a very bad one at that. Jaime’s heart fell to the pit of his stomach when he saw his bandaged stump. _The Seven help me, it is true_. Jaime could still feel his hand even though it was gone. Staring at it with eyes opened wide in complete shock, he started feeling sick to his stomach.

The memory of the last few days, after the huge Dothraki had cut off his hand with his arakh, was a hazy blur to him. He barely could remember anything at all, only glimpses here and there of memory and random images popping up into his mind.

 _We’ve been captured by the Black Wolves_ , he recalled with difficulty. _They wanted to rape Sansa. I talked them out of doing so._

Jaime tried to think, screwing up his face in deep concentration. _They tied us together on Sansa’s mare, and we’re now in a holdfast. And the maester . . . the maester cut at my flesh and it hurt like all the seven bleeding hells. I . . . I passed out._

Slowly, the memory of the previous night also came back to him. _I fucked Sansa last night._ We _fucked last night._ The recollection was a hazy one, but his cock and groin felt sticky with their juices.

Moving slowly so as not to wake her, Jaime disentangled himself from Sansa. Then he slowly rose from the bed and went to the small table where a pitcher of water was waiting. Not even bothering with the cup that sat next to it, he drank directly from the pitcher in big gulps, water trickling down the sides of his mouth and onto his chest, wetting his shift, as he tried swallowing as much water as he could. The cool liquid felt incredibly good as it went down his throat and Jaime thought it was better than any wine or ale he’d ever drank in his life.

Depositing the now-empty pitcher roughly on the table, he was about to wipe his mouth with his right hand when his stump hit his chin, hurting like hell and knocking the wind out of him.

Jaime’s jaw clenched hard in pure agony and he bent over, trying to catch his breath, slowly breathing in and out through gritted teeth. After some long minutes, he slowly straightened up and proceeded to clean himself up before he turned round, searching for his clothes. They were neatly folded on top of a chair near the bed.

Jaime finally noticed the guarderobe in the corner of the room, also next to the chair, and went to finally relieve himself while struggling with his smallclothes in the process, making him swear loudly when piss trickled over his hand.

After the struggle of taking a simple piss, next came trying to dress himself which also became an arduous struggle, with only his left hand of any use to him – frustrating him no end and making him grunt in pain before he heard a sleepy voice call behind him.

“Jaime?”

Sansa was awake. He saw her sit slowly on the bed, her beautiful auburn curls a fiery tumble of mad locks around her head.

“Let me help you,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. Jaime saw her toss the blankets aside and rise from the bed, making her way towards him.

He suddenly got angry at her, with her.

“Don’t Sansa, just don’t,” he warned her, a harshness to his tone that was unnatural in him.

Sansa stopped where she was, as if rooted to the spot, a look of hurt crossing her beautiful features as she blinked her eyes still full of sleep. Jaime noticed that her eye was almost back to normal, only a very slight shade of yellow marking the place where Joffrey had hit her, and the cut on her lip was completely healed.

“Jaime,” she started, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry. I know this is my fault. I- I should have liste—”

“—stop! Just stop!” He almost snarled. He didn’t want to hear her excuses and her apology. Jaime had never felt so angry in his life. No, he _had_ felt this angry before, back when he learned of Cersei’s betrayals from his brother Tyrion.

Jaime looked at Sansa standing there, a few feet away from him, tears welling in her eyes. Jaime finished what passed as clothing himself and made for the door, opening it with his left hand angrily, when he got confronted by the huge Dothraki (Rhe’eko, was it?) who stood in the door frame with his arms folded in front of him across his large chest, barring his way with a deep scowl on his dark features.

Jaime saw red. Roaring, he rammed himself into the huge man’s stomach, sending them both sprawling hard to the flagstone floor, knocking the wind out of Jaime. Then he started hitting at the Dothraki’s face over and over again with his left fist, aware that his blows were weak.

The huge man just stood there beneath him, unmoving, blood trickling at the corner of his mouth.

 _He was ordered not to hit me or hurt me_ , Jaime realized.

Still, he kept on hitting the massive man until a pair of strong arms pulled him off the Dothraki outlaw.

“That’s enough Kingslayer!” The voice was deep and commanding.

Jaime was breathing hard and he was opening and closing his left fist in his anger. He recognized the man now standing in front of him as the one who’d pulled Sansa from her mare, the leader of the Black Wolves: Donal Antos.

“You fucking swine,” Jaime spat at the man.

“I see you are feeling better,” Antos only said in response, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Jaime was shaking and breathing heavily. He realized how weak he truly was, probably because of the severe blood loss he’d suffered before the fever racked his body for so many days and nights; that and the fact that he’d almost eaten nothing since his hand was cut off.

“Come,” Donal Antos said to him. “There’s food in the hall. You should eat before you pass out again.” Then, turning toward the open door, Antos said “Please, get dressed Lady Sansa and join us downstairs, if you will?”

Jaime shot a look at Sansa before turning from her and following Antos, aware that he’d just hurt her again.

*****

Jaime was ravenous. He was eating almost everything that was set out on the table in front of him, filling his plate with a huge amount of food. There were black sausages and crispy bacon, boiled eggs and ham, cheese and slices of warm golden bread, grapes and pears and even small strawberry cakes. Jaime thought this was a feast fit for kings.

As he was eating his fill, washing it down with some decent ale, he noticed that Sansa’s head was bowed down and that she was picking at her food. Seeing how unhappy she was because of him, Jaime felt like shit.

He’d blamed Sansa for the loss of his hand while he knew it was as much his fault for not keeping his concentration on the Dothraki. But his concern for Sansa had distracted him, and he knew it was because he had fallen in love with Ned Stark’s daughter. _Am I really in love with her?_ He wondered. _The Others take me, I think I might_.

The realization hit him squarely in the face and he raised his eyes to her again. _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ he thought. _Why did this have to happen?_ Jaime had never been in love with anyone but his twin sister Cersei, and the fact that he had strong feelings for Sansa Stark felt completely strange and overwhelming to him. Almost unnatural, even.

He willed her to raise her head and look back at him, wanting to see a confirmation in her eyes that she felt the same way about him. But she resolutely kept her head down, pointedly not looking his way, so Jaime returned his attention to his plate before the other outlaws would notice the look he’d just given her. He knew he’d hurt her bad earlier. But the loss of his hand and his sudden rage at the realization that it _had_ happened had made him lash back at her.

“I see your appetite has also returned as well as your health,” Donal Antos told him.

Jaime looked at the man. _I know the accent, Sansa’s maid Shae had the same one. He’s from Essos, Lorathi, probably._

“Well, no thanks to you,” he replied with a small smirk, as he chewed on a sausage.

“No. You have to thank the little queen and my half-brother, Maester Willis,” Antos said waving at the tall, thin maester sitting by his side.

 _Little queen?_ Thought Jaime, raising an eyebrow in surprise. He shot another look at Sansa who was looking back at Donal Antos with a blush on her cheeks, making Jaime uncharacteristically jealous at the rather good-looking Lorathi. _He has a pet name for Sansa._ Jaime started simmering at the thought.

 _Has he touched her? Have they slept together?_ Jaime knew his thoughts were completely irrational but he couldn’t help them. There was so little he remembered of the past eight days that his mind was playing tricks on him. _Maybe that’s why they allowed her to take care of me? No. No. Sansa wouldn’t do that. She’s one of the purest, truest women I’ve ever known._ He shook his head, trying to push away unbidden images of Sansa straddling the handsome Lorathi outlaw. _Fuck._

Antos was looking closely at him, as if he could read Jaime’s fucking mind.

“You think I fucked your woman,” he said. Then he started laughing loudly, making Jaime even angrier. “Don’t worry, Kingslayer, I never touched the little queen. She only has eyes for you,” he said, taking a huge chunk of bread in his mouth and chewing on it noisily.

Jaime felt Sansa’s gaze fall on him but when he looked back at her she had lowered her gaze to her relatively untouched plate again, but Jaime saw how her cheeks and chest had taken on a deeply red blush.

“It’s nothing to me,” he heard himself say. Fuck, what the hell was he doing? He felt an unnatural urge to hurt Sansa even more, as if he couldn’t stop himself because of what happened. _It’s not her fault you fucking idiot, stop punishing her._

He heard her sob and she rose abruptly from the table and ran from the hall, her face in her hands. Jaime saw Antos give a look at a short red-haired man who silently rose from his place to go and follow Sansa. Jaime felt like the biggest bastard in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Why do you hurt her, Kingslayer? She is not responsible for the loss of your hand,” Donal Antos told him sharply. “She took care of you all the while you were ill and dying. Have you so little respect for her that you would treat her this way? Despite the fact that her only apprehension was for you and not for herself? I see now you are no man of honor.”

Jaime glared hard at him, shooting him a murderous look. “The question of my honor is of no concern to you, Black Wolf.”

Antos frowned at him. “Might be it’s not. But do I need to remind you that you’re the _Kingslayer_? And the little queen is a lady and she does not deserve your hatred or your rough treatment of her, nor your harsh words.”

Jaime rose abruptly from the bench where he’d been sitting, his ghost hand going for a sword that was no longer at his hips. His heart sank at the realization.

Donal Antos’ gaze went to his stump and then to his hip. “We have your sword, Kingslayer, though I believe you may never have need for it again.”

Jaime gave him a dazzling smile. “I still have another hand, wolf.”

The Lorathi burst out laughing again. “I had heard stories about your cockiness, Kingslayer. I see it is no old women’s tales and that it is well earned.”

“Donal, I believe there is no need for that,” said the maester who was Donal Antos’ brother in a gentle tone. This one had stayed silent the entire time, listening to their jabs and insults with the patience of a holy septon.

Jaime looked at the man. He was older than the Black Wolves’ leader. His face was thinner with grey eyes instead of the striking blue of Antos’ eyes – _eyes that look like Sansa’s._ Fuck him, why did he hurt Sansa again? He needed to find her and beg her forgiveness even though he doubted that she would be in any forgiving mood after the way he’d just treated her. Again.

“Why do you take his side, Willis?” asked Antos.

“I take no one’s side, Donal. Ser Jaime has gone through a lot of pain but there is no need for anyone to be angry. It was the gods’ will that he lose his sword hand.”

“I fuck the gods in their asses,” Jaime said evenly.

Maester Willis’ eyes peered intently at him. “They forgive you,” he said simply. “They know the pain you are in.”

“I don’t believe in the gods,” Jaime replied dryly. “I stopped believing in them . . .” he started then stopped. _I stopped believing in them first when my mother died and then when Cersei betrayed me again, and again, and again, with her numerous lovers._

“Perhaps so,” said Maester Willis. Then he looked at his brother. “Donal, do not leave Lady Sansa alone with your Braavosi swordsman. Mayhaps you should go see if she is alright.”

Donal Antos looked at his brother for a minute before nodding in agreement and leaving the hall in search of Sansa.

 _Who is truly leading here?_ Jaime wondered. _I believe the_ real _leader here is the maester and_ not _Donal Antos._

“So, what will you do with us?” Jaime asked Maester Willis. “Will you ransom us? Have you sent ravens to my lord father in King’s Landing yet?”

“Yes, we will ransom you both, but no, we have not sent any ravens yet.”

“Why is that?” Jaime asked, genuinely surprised.

The maester chuckled. “We haven’t yet decided what to ask for you in exchange.”

“Ah,” Jaime said. “I thought you sellswords liked the sound of gold piling in your coffers,” he shrugged. “Unless . . .” _Unless you have something quite different in mind_ , Jaime thought. _But what, exactly?_ Jaime peered into the maester’s grey eyes, trying to find the reason why no raven was sent to King’s Landing yet. But Maester Willis’ face was a blank, unflinching mask and Jaime couldn’t read anything from him.

Then a nagging question arose in his mind. “There are five of you here, in this holdfast. And perhaps a few servants? How come there are no more guards guarding it? How come no one’s attacked you yet? You are very much in the open here.”

“That is an excellent question, Ser Jaime,” Maester Willis said. He opened his arms to indicate the hall. “The answer is quite simple. Everyone is afraid of us. You see, the Black Wolves are many, and we are scouring the land south of the Blackwater Rush, striking everywhere when people least expect us to. They know that if they dared come here, we would retaliate and burn down their town and put their people to the sword, after raping their women, of course.”

Jaime felt chills going down his spine at the maester’s words. “Strange words coming from a maester’s mouth. Aren’t you supposed to protect the weak? To be a healer, a teacher? But _you_ are the real leader here, not Donal. Am I right? I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. If you were killed, the Black Wolves would lose their master and run around like roosters without their heads.”

Maester Willis stood silent for long minutes before answering Jaime. “Mayhaps,” he said, “But you are wrong in believing I am the only one with power here. Believe me, if my head was struck down from my shoulders, another would take my place. No one would be safe,” he added, smirking at Jaime.

 _So, there’s someone else in power here too as well, but is it really Donal? Perhaps I was wrong. But if it is him, the two of them are here, in the same holdfast. By killing them both the Black Wolves would truly run headless and the people would rise against them and struck them from the Seven Kingdoms._ Somehow, Jaime doubted that. He had a feeling it was someone that wasn’t here. Someone from another group.

The maester rose up from his bench and smiled at Jaime. “Perhaps now would be the time for you to retire to your bedchamber, you must be exhausted.” He signaled to the Dothraki that it was time for him to bring Jaime back to his room.

Jaime looked at the maester and gave him a thin smile. But before he left, he turned to Maester Willis again.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any moon tea now, would you?”

*****

When he returned to his bedchamber, which was conveniently situated on the last floor of the holdfast, Jaime noticed at once that Sansa wasn’t there, making him worried as all the seven hells about her. Looking around, he also noticed that the bag holding her clothes was missing as well.

 _Great_ , Jaime thought. _She’s gone, where has she flown to_? Now he was worried sick. _It’s my fault. I just treated her like shit._

He sat heavily on the side of the bed and was about to comb his hair through with his right hand when he realized he no longer had one. _Fuck the gods to all the seven hells_ , he thought. Then again, maybe he deserved all that had befallen him. After all, he’d fucked his twin sister for years and had gotten her with child three times. Plus his eldest son Joffrey was himself quite the monster. But what about Sansa Stark? Was she another sin to add to his very long list of sins, including murdering King Aerys the Mad? Or was she meant to be his redemption? Jaime didn’t know. But he knew she was important to him, more than he could even say.

Making his way toward the door, he opened it and came face to face with Robett Swyft who was now pulling guard duty on Jaime.

“Where is Sansa?” He demanded in a commanding tone that brooked no refusal.

The archer eyed Jaime up and down for a minute before he answered. “The ‘little queen,’ as Donal likes to call her, is in another room since she figured you no longer had need of her.”

 _Fuck_ , Jaime thought. _I do need her, desperately,_ was what he wanted to say. But instead, he only told the archer, “I need to talk to her.”

Robett Swyft took a few steps forward so he was now almost face-to-face with Jaime, who was a head taller than the Black Wolves’ archer. This one craned his neck and lifted his head upwards to be able to look at him.

“Might be she _don’t_ want to talk to you,” he said, pointedly.

“Well, _I_ want to talk to her,” Jaime replied, he could feel his lips pulling into a small smirk.

He saw Swyft squint his eyes hard at him. “I don’t know, Kingslayer. The little lady was quite rattled earlier. What’s it you’ve done to her?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Jaime replied amiably enough, trying to keep his temper in check. He was swordless and handless as well, so there wasn’t much he could do to the man, except perhaps head butt the idiot in front of him or smash his head against the wall or the floor, but then he’d had to face the huge Dothraki and the master swordsman as well as Donal Antos. And Jaime had the very distinct feeling it was a fight he wouldn’t win.

Plus, there was also Sansa to consider. Jaime knew he didn’t want to put her in even more danger.

Jaime only smiled his golden smile at Swyft and said, “Please, ser, if you could let her know that I want to talk to her, I know she will come.” Jaime then waited for a second before adding: “Plus, I’ll make it worth your while; there could be more gold coins in your purse in the very near future,” Jaime said almost conspiratorially.

Robett Swyft pursed his lips in thought and then said. “Alright Kingslayer, I’ll take you to her room. But no funny business, or you’ll lose the other hand,” he said as he drew his sword and waved it in Jaime’s face.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he smiled at the man.

*****

Jaime could see how furious and deeply hurt Sansa was. Her body was stiff, her arms folded in front of her chest, her lips pursed back, showing Jaime her perfect white teeth. _Just like the Stark wolf that she is_ , Jaime thought. _Gods she is so beautiful. More beautiful than Cersei ever was, because she has a good heart. And I . . . well I . . .  I’m just a fucking bastard . . ._ and _a fool for her._

She was just standing there, obviously waiting for him to say something to her. Her beautiful red hair falling again in mad tumbles and looking like a halo of flames surrounding the pale skin of her cheeks now rendered red in her anger.

Jaime was shifting uneasily on his feet while he held her gaze, drowning in the blue seas of her eyes.

He wasn’t very good at apologizing, but Sansa deserved one.

He knew he’d acted like a complete bastard earlier. It wasn’t her fault he’d lost his concentration while fighting the Dothraki, but he also knew that his deep . . . _concern_ for the girl had also taken his attention away from the massive warrior. _Still, it wasn’t Sansa’s fault. It was my own. I’m a trained warrior, not a bloody green squire—it should never have happened._

“Lady Sansa,” he began.

“Now I’m _Lady_ Sansa and not simply Sansa? _Ser_ Jaime?” She told him, harshly.

Jaime was taken aback by the tone of her voice. It was icy cold. _Well, that’s not going so well._

“Sansa, I- I’m sorry. I should not have snapped at you or been angry with you. I know you’ve . . . taken care of me night and day ever since it happened.” He swallowed hard, finding it painful to say the words because they would make the reality of it even more _real_ and painful. “Ever since I lost my sword hand.”

Jaime slowly raised his stump and stared at it, lost in thought for a moment. He could swear he could feel his hand, could feel his fingers moving, but they were gone. It was still hurting like all the seven hells, he could feel the pain thumping with each beat of his heart, but Jaime was used to pain so he pushed it away, in the deep recesses of his mind.

He sighed loudly.

Jaime raised his head again and looked at Sansa. She was looking away from him, biting at her lower lip. In a few steps he was on her and raised his left hand to her face, pressing his palm against her warm, red cheek and felt a wetness there. _She’s been crying. Fuck. I really am a bastard and a bloody fool. Falling in love with Sansa Stark. If Ned Stark were alive right now he’d keep his daughter well away from me. But he isn’t alive, now, is he? My own son, Joffrey, had his head cut off from his shoulders before displaying it on a spike like a trophy. The little bastard shit._

“Sansa,” he said again. “I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you, did not _want_ to hurt you. I’m just a fool. Can you forgive me?”

He pressed his forehead against hers as her hand reached up to grab at his left hand, her long warm fingers entwining with his.

“Jaime . . .” Sansa raised her eyes to his and they locked. Hers were red-rimmed and full of tears. “I am sorry too,” she whispered, a sob catching in her throat.

He kissed her, pressing his lips softly over hers, over and over and over again as she responded eagerly enough. Jaime opened his mouth and slid his tongue inside her parting lips, licking over her mouth.

Sansa moaned into his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck. Kissing him back eagerly.

Then he trailed light kisses along her jawline, over her earlobe which he suckled on, and then down to her neck, kissing her hammering pulse.

“That’s enough, Kingslayer,” came the harsh voice of Donal Antos behind him.

Jaime turned his head back round toward the tall man. “You have lousy timing, has anyone ever told you that?”

“We’ve received a raven from King’s Landing, Lannister.” Antos paused, looking at him with something akin to sympathy. “You are not to like what tidings the bird brought with it.”

“Is that so?” Jaime asked cockily. Then he added almost hesitantly, “What do you mean? Has my father refused to pay the ransom?” Jaime couldn’t believe that his father, Lord Tywin Lannister, would have refused to ransom his own beloved eldest son. “What’s happened?”

“It is not about your ransom, Ser Jaime.”

 _Ser Jaime, now that’s a first,_ he thought warily.“Out with it now, Black Wolf, before we all die of old age, or boredom.”

Jaime saw Donal Antos sigh before replying: “I’m truly sorry, Kingslayer, but your _nephew_ , King Joffrey, is dead, murdered during some ball given in honor of his newly pregnant queen. And apparently, it was your brother the Imp, Tyrion, who poisoned him.”


	7. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Sansa are still prisoners of the Black Wolves. Will they finally escape the company of sellswords’ clutches?

**Sansa**

It was another week before Sansa and Jaime heard more news from King’s Landing, and the tidings that arrived by raven one grey, gloomy morning were even worse than before. Not only did suspicion fall squarely on the half-man, Tyrion Lannister, for his own nephew’s murder (something Jaime vehemently refused to believe in) but now news were also reaching them that the Imp had mysteriously disappeared from his deep dark cell beneath the Red Keep, and that the great Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, had been found dead in his bedchamber in the Tower of the Hand with a quarrel through his heart.

Jaime didn’t say a single word as he received the terrible news from a sympathetic Maester Willis. His face was a blank mask of impassiveness, but Sansa saw that his left hand was closed shut in a tight fist that was turning white under the strain.

After fearing for his life when his stump became infected after he’d lost his sword hand, now Sansa feared for Jaime’s very sanity.

He’d kept to his room almost the entire time since learning of his son’s death, his brother’s possible involvement in the matter, Tyrion’s escape, and the sordid murder of his father.

“It’s not Tyrion,” Jaime told her one evening as they lay together in bed, their limbs entwined under the warm blankets, their bodies satiated by their recent and intense bout of lovemaking made desperate by Jaime’s obvious emotional—and physical—pain. She knew he wanted to lose himself in pleasure, to lose himself in her.

The Black Wolves had permitted them to stay together in the highest room of the holdfast, with a man constantly at their door to make any attempt at escaping nearly impossible.

“Why do you not think so?” Sansa asked while her hand traced gentle, comforting circles over Jaime’s warm chest, her long slender fingers playing with the ashen-blond hair there.

She was nudged against his warm body, her head on his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart while Jaime was lying on his back, his eyes staring at an invisible point on the ceiling, his left hand soothingly rubbing her shoulder, making her skin rise in goose prickles.

He remained silent for some long minutes deep in thought before answering. “I know my brother,” he said slowly. “He would never have killed Joffrey, no matter how much of a monster my nephew . . . my _son_ , was.”

Sansa looked at him intently. It was the first time that Jaime had ever truly acknowledged to her that Joffrey had been his son, his very own flesh and blood, the result of his incestuous relationship with his twin sister Queen Cersei, while she’d already known the truth for a long time now. _Thanks to Stannis Baratheon, half of Westeros knew the truth of it while the other half pretended not to._

He went on. “People see Tyrion as a monster because he is a dwarf. My . . . our sister hates him because she holds him responsible for our mother’s death. And now she holds him responsible for Joff’s murder. But I still don’t believe Tyrion did it. As for my father’s death well . . . this one I may believe. My father never showed much love toward my brother. Or even me, for that matter, but I am the eldest son, so I always had his favor. It was never so with Tyrion who always ended up with scraps, so to speak. There was also the matter of his wife . . .”

Sansa was waiting for him to continue; intrigued to learn that the Imp had been married and wanting to know more, but instead Jaime became sullen for some long minutes before adding: “Tyrion’s escape smells of Lord Varys, the spider. The Master of Whisperers has also conveniently vanished from King’s Landing, so I’m told.” Then he said, “I should have been there, standing vigil over Joffrey and my father’s bodies. The Knights of the Kingsguard were the ones to stand in my place—as it should be—and now my son and my father both have been laid to rest without me,” he said with a hint of bitterness.

Sansa pondered what Jaime had told her and raised her head up to him, her eyes staring at his beautiful features, noticing the sadness that was plainly showing upon his face.

“I am sorry Jaime.” It seemed to Sansa that she was sorry for a lot of things of late. She raised her hand to his face, cupping it gently, her thumb slowly stroking his stubbled cheek. He had decided to let his beard grow, and it looked good on him, making him look more dignified and regal, somehow.

Then she asked him, “Are you the Lord of Casterly Rock now?”

Jaime turned his head toward her and she noticed how his grey-blue eyes looked like an autumn storm upon the seas. “As a member of the Kingsguard I cannot inherit Casterly Rock, and I know my father refused Tyrion the lordship of it before he died. So it is my sister, Cersei, who is now Lady of Casterly Rock.”

“Will she still allow us to go there?” Sansa was worried that since Joffrey and Lord Tywin were now both dead that she and especially Jaime would be brought back to King’s Landing. And though the object of her torment –Joffrey himself—was gone, Queen Cersei would no doubt place a lot of the blame and project her hatred onto her: especially _if_ she were to discover Jaime and her had become lovers.

Jaime shrugged. “I don’t care what she says or does. I’m taking you to Casterly Rock, like my father intended.”

 _So, I will still be your prisoner in truth_ , Sansa thought. She remained silent, keeping her thoughts to herself while Jaime went back to staring at the invisible point on the ceiling.

They both stood unspeaking for some time when Jaime suddenly said, “You know we have to escape the Black Wolves. With no news from any members of your family and the death of my father things will get more complicated and potentially dangerous for us both, though Cersei will no doubt wish to ransom me in the end, but I cannot count on that, nor on _her_ , just yet.”

“How?” she said. Their room was too high for them to even attempt climbing out of the window at night, even with all their blankets attached. Jaime had said that there weren’t enough of those to even reach the ground. As for escaping from inside the holdfast, there was always a man at their door: It was either the archer, Robett Swyft, or the glowering Dothraki, Rhe’eko, or the mute Braavosi swordsman, Xenios Andres. And sometimes, even Donal Antos also stood guard.

Both Sansa and Jaime had noticed that the tall Lorathi was now wearing Jaime’s Valyrian sword Oathkeeper and his scabbard on his hips. She also knew Jaime was particularly furious at that, since it was his lord father’s very last gift to him before he departed King’s Landing with her.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I will find a way Sansa, I promise.” Then he kissed her brow.

*****

The very next day, as she and Jaime were at supper with the outlaws in the main hall, Maester Willis gave them some even more startling news.

“We have had tidings that your sister, Queen Cersei, has accused Joffrey’s wife, the Lady Margaery, of being unfaithful to the dead king and that she is in truth carrying one of her lover’s child, and has declared her son Tommen King of the Seven Kingdoms. It would appear that the father of Margaery’s child may be a Ser Osney Kettleblack. And so Queen Cersei has ordered Queen Margaery and two of her three cousins to be arrested on charges of treason. In the meanwhile, Ser Loras Tyrell, who’d stood vigil by King Joffrey’s and your father’s corpses, was sent away to try and take back Dragonstone, before his sister was arrested, and the news are that he’s been severely injured in the attack and is not expected to live. If he does, he will be disfigured for the rest of his life.”

Sansa felt Jaime flinch beside her while he stared intently at Maester Willis. Sansa knew that he was trying to process the news the thin-faced maester had just given him. She reached her hand underneath the table to grasp Jaime’s left hand. Her fingers found his calloused ones and they entwined and closed tight together. Jaime’s grasp was so strong she felt as if he was crushing her hand with all his might, but she knew he was merely holding on to her, holding on to his very sanity.

All that time, Sansa had listened with her mouth agape before reminding herself that it was quite unladylike for her to do so and that—like Septa Mordane had often told her—it would make her look like a fish.

 _Queen Cersei is mad!_ Sansa thought. But then, she always knew that there was always a madness to Joff’s mother. She remembered quite well the night of the Battle of the Blackwater how Cersei had acted as she drank her way through the battle in Maegor’s Holdfast.

Jaime let go of her hand and put it on the table, grasping at a knife clumsily to cut himself some bread and cheese while he used his bandaged stump to hold them in place awkwardly, all the while still keeping silent about the news they’d just received.  

But Sansa had noticed how his cheeks had become paler, how his lips were almost drained of color.

“Have you nothing to say, Kingslayer?” Donal Antos asked from where he was sitting, by his older brother’s side, as usual.

Antos had told Sansa that Maester Willis was in fact his half-brother, their father being a Westerosi—the youngest son of a minor lord with no land, no money, and no title to his name; only a talent for the sword, a hedge knight. And as Willis’ mother had been Westerosi too, he’d grown up near Oldtown, where he would often see Maesters coming and going from the Citadel, and that was why he was inspired to become one himself. While Antos’ mother had been Lorathi and he’d grown up in Lorath, learning the trade of a swordsman—like his father—before becoming a sellsword for hire. That was when he first met Rhe’eko and then Robett and Xenios.

He’d never known he had a half-brother until his father revealed as much to him as he lay dying. Then Antos had crossed the Narrow Sea to find this unknown half-brother of his, and when he’d found him, the both of them became almost inseparable, despite their age difference.

“And your brother is the leader of the Black Wolves? Not you? Why is that?” She had asked him, curious as to why he wasn’t the leader of the group.

Donal Antos had shrugged his large shoulders, cocking his head to the left as he did so. “Willis is brilliant and clever. He sees to our operations far better than I ever could. But he’s not the only one with a voice. We all have a say in everything. And there is someone else as well but I cannot reveal him to you, little queen. Nice try.” Then he’d smiled at her. But Sansa had not liked the smile he gave her.

As of late, she often felt as if he was undressing her with his eyes every single time he looked at her, and it always made her feel naked and utterly uncomfortable.

“Cersei can rot in all the seven hells,” she heard Jaime say at last. “Or Queen Margaery, for all I care. They are nothing to me.”

“Nothing to you?” Maester Willis had exclaimed, surprised. “Your own twin sister and your . . . niece-in-law?”

Sansa knew Maester Willis had almost said daughter-in-law but had held his tongue in time.

“Has my _sister_ sent a raven saying she would ransom me?” Asked Jaime, a dryness to his tone that made Sansa glance at him sideways and she saw him peer intently into Maester Willis’ eyes while playing with the knife again almost absent-mindedly. Before laying it down on the table slowly, softly, _soundlessly_. Before sliding it discretely into his sleeve.

Sansa had tried to remain calm, going for the jug of ale and pouring herself a cupful, taking little sips from it all the while averting her eyes from Jaime, and looking at the Lorathi to see if the man had seen Jaime hide the knife into his sleeve. She noticed instead that he was only staring at her again, and Sansa felt herself blush from head to toe and shudder under the man’s intense gaze.

She knew perfectly well that he thought her beautiful, and that he wanted her. And that knowledge frightened her because she didn’t know what Antos would actually do to Jaime to actually _get_ her. And Sansa would never give herself to him willingly. She of course knew what that meant for her.

“Your sister has sent no ravens as of yet, no,” Maester Willis replied sadly. “Nor have any of Lady Sansa’s family, I regret to say. Perhaps the wars and the troubles in the Riverlands are keeping them too busy to worry about her as well, even if she is the Young Wolf’s heir and the rightful Queen in the North? Perhaps no ravens have reached them, too? However, I am rather surprised at Lady Arryn’s silence, especially since it is well known that she is still in the Vale. Oh, and have you heard that she is to marry Lord Petyr Baelish? The Lord of Harrenhal? Now _that_ is quite an interesting story, don’t you think so, Ser Jaime?”

“Not particularly, no. And you also have your answer, ser,” was Jaime’s icy cold reply. He rose to his feet and turned toward Sansa. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I think it is time for Lady Sansa and I to return to our bedchamber.”

Jaime was looking at her intently and Sansa nodded at him while giving Maester Willis an apologetic smile, whereas she averted her gaze from Donal Antos.

The maester simply smiled back at them. “Ah, young love,” he said, with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

*****

Jaime was pacing the length of their room over and over again, deep in thought. Sansa mused that if he kept the pace, he would actually wear the flagstone floor down.

She was waiting patiently for him to come up with a plan, while she sat with her back straight on the side of the bed with her hands neatly folded in her lap. A fire was crackling in the massive stone fireplace and the room was quite warm, and with her belly full of food, Sansa’s eyes started to close on their own volition. Barely able to stay awake, she yawned noisily and Jaime stopped pacing to look at her.

Sitting himself slowly by her side, he brushed the back of his left hand softly against her cheek, sending a wonderful shiver down her spine and making her womanhood start to ache in want of him. Then he slid his fingers through her hair and grabbing a lock, he rolled it around his index finger almost absent-mindedly. Sansa’s body was suddenly covered in goose bumps and she sighed contentedly, making her marvel at how a simple gesture such as Jaime playing with her hair could make her so completely happy.

“Why don’t you rest Sansa, I still haven’t come up with a plan yet, and you will need to rest. Because as soon as we’ve made our escape, there will be no rest for us until we reach Deep Den. _If_ there are as many Black Wolves in the area as they want us to believe.”

“You don’t think they are that many?” Sansa asked, surprised.

“I’m not sure Sansa. It might be they are, but it might be they are not as numerous as they want us to believe as well. It’s a possibility I’ve been considering for some time now.”

“Yes, perhaps you are right. But how would their reputation as dangerous outlaws travel so far and wide if they were not that many and very dangerous at that?”

“Oh, I believe there are other men out there. Just like the Brotherhood without Banners in the Riverlands led by Lord Beric Dondarrion, or the Brave Companions led by that lisping swine Vargo Hoat are scattered. But maybe those other small groups are that: small. Five or six men striking under cover of darkness, striking weak, defenseless small villages, it’s enough to strike fear in men’s hearts, especially in these troubled times. But they never hit large castles or holdfasts. And perhaps there are only three or four more groups of Black Wolves out there and no more. They are simply making us believe that they are numerous so we wouldn’t think twice about escaping.”

Sansa reflected on what Jaime had just told her. _Perhaps he is right_ , she thought. “In that case, do you believe we can make it to Deep Den without meeting up with any more Black Wolves?”

“If we are being very careful, yes.” Jaime said slowly. “But we’ll also have to escape these ones.” Jaime made a gesture with his head, pointing in the closed oaken door’s direction. “But I have to find a way for us to escape them. That will be the difficult part. And without my sword hand or my sword . . .”

Sansa laid her head on his shoulder, her hand going slowly up his arm and stroking him lightly before she entwined her fingers in his calloused ones. Jaime closed his hand around hers and kissed her brow. She glanced at his right arm. It was resting lightly on his thigh, the bandaged stump painfully in evidence over his leg.

“You will need to have your bandage changed again. You should see Maester Willis now.” She didn’t want Jaime to leave her just now, but his bandage needed to be changed, his stump checked. _Before_ they made their escape.

Jaime sighed. “Yes . . . I know.” He hugged her to him and Sansa felt herself melt into him. Jaime had grown stronger with food in his belly and rest and proper treatment of his wound. “Maester Willis says the closed flesh is healing nicely . . .”

Sansa heard the hesitation in his tone.

“Can you still feel them? Your hand and your fingers?”

“Yes. Willis says it’s normal. That I’ll feel my . . . phantom hand for the rest of my life,” he said bitterly, sighing, his eyes gazing in front of him at something that wasn’t there.

She hugged him back to her, raising her face to his while he looked down on her, a seriousness etched upon his beautiful features. Then she pressed her lips over his mouth, the new beard tickling her. Jaime sighed a small sigh of pleasure and he kissed her back, his lips brushing over hers softly.

Sansa’s womanhood started to ache dully again but they couldn’t . . . _fuck_ , Sansa’s red flower was now upon her. She knew it was because of the last cup of moon tea Maester Willis had brought her the night before. At first, she had refused to drink the brew he had taken her again: staring at it from the bed whilst it sat waiting and cooling down on the small table in the corner of her bedchamber.

Then she’d sighed deeply and finally drank it all.

She understood why she couldn’t, shouldn’t, be with Jaime’s child; the fact that the child would be bastard-born like her half-brother Jon Snow, who was now serving as a Brother of the Night’s Watch on the Wall in the far north, being one. The fact that Jaime was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and unable to marry her and shouldn’t father a child, being another; and the fact that she was now her brother Robb’s heir and the Queen in the North, and that she needed her reputation to be as spotless as could be, as well as being able to make an advantageous match for her north in ruins, being a third one.

Still, Sansa felt sad that she wasn’t with Jaime’s child. _I would love a little boy that looks just like him, with grey-blue eyes and sandy blond hair blowing in the wind, while he laughs and laughs as he climbs the walls of Winterfell, just like my little brother Bran did._

She became sad again. She had almost no family left, and her own mother’s brother and sister didn’t want her, hadn’t ransomed her back. Nor did her uncle the Blackfish. All her brothers but Jon were dead, and she didn’t even know if her little sister Arya was still alive.

Jaime had noticed the changes in her expression and was squeezing her hand with his own warm calloused one, _the only hand he has left because of me_.

“We’ll succeed Sansa, we’ll escape this damn place and go to Casterly Rock. But first, we need to reach Deep Den to be safe. With luck, Pod and the red cloaks will have made their way there before we arrive and they will be waiting for us. I know the family. Lord Lewys Lydden is of a noble house from the Westerlands and was one of my father’s most trusted vassals, defending King’s Landing alongside him during the Battle of the Blackwater.”

 _Another Ser Lewys_ Sansa mused thoughtfully. _I wonder if he’ll have a sister named Lady Alys._

Jaime kept on talking, unaware of her thoughts. “His castle and the town around it are partly built from the mountainside itself and is almost impregnable. We’ll be safe there Sansa, you’ll see.”

*****

Jaime left Sansa to seek out Maester Willis in his solar to have his bandage changed and his stump seen to.

The hour was already late, and she truly felt the need to sleep. The flow of her red flower was abundant, more so than usual, and Sansa felt more tired and weaker somehow. She kept changing her cloth every few hours and it was always so full of blood it almost scared her.

She didn’t want to say anything to Jaime so as not to worry him even more, but Sansa _was_ worried. _I will have to see Maester Willis in the morning just in case. I will go before breaking our fast._

Sansa had taken off her dress and was now wearing the nightgown that had been handed down to her by Lady Alys Wryght, after they’d lost their clothes. She had made her way to the bed and was about to climb into it, craving sleep and the warmth of blankets and furs over her tired body when there was a loud knock at the door.

 _Who can this be at this hour?_ _Jaime cannot have returned yet,_ and he no longer knocked before entering _their_ bedchamber besides.

She made her way tentatively to the door and opened it slowly, cautiously, peeking through the crack of her bedchamber door.

There, in front of her, was Donal Antos. And he looked drunk. In fact, he had a skin of wine in his hand and was drinking deep from it when she opened her door.

“Donal!” She exclaimed, unhappily surprised to see him. She thought it was Xenios’ turn to pull guard duty on them and he wasn’t there . . . perhaps he had accompanied Jaime to Maester Willis’ solar instead and Donal had taken his place? But then again, why would he be guarding her while drinking . . .

“Little queen,” he breathed heavily. Sansa could smell the wine on his breath. “Your Kingslayer is downstairs with my big brother having his arm tended to.” He suddenly chuckled and took another swig of his wine.

The sight sent a chill of familiar fear course through her entire body. _Just like Joffrey_ . . . she thought. “I was heading for bed, Donal. Please excuse me as I am not in the mood for conversation. I- I am very tired,” she tried telling him sweetly, slowly closing the door on him while he looked on, his eyes bloodshot. _Please go away, please go away, please please please go away._

She’d almost closed the door shut when Donal managed to slide his foot between the door and the doorframe, stopping Sansa from closing it.

Donal Antos pushed his way inside her bedchamber roughly, making Sansa backtrack rapidly in fear until the back of her legs bumped into the bed and she fell backwards upon it, lying sprawled on her back. In less than a few seconds, Antos was on top of her, the skin of wine dropped and all but forgotten to the cold flagstone floor.

His face was now only a few inches away from hers and his breath smelled so strongly of wine it made her ill.

He pressed his entire body over hers, keeping her prisoner between his strong frame and the mattress. Their combined weights making them both sink into the soft feather bed. Fear shot through her and she knew why he was here. She could now feel his pressing erection close to her nub.

“Little queen,” he repeated as he was obviously trying to wrap his tongue around his words. “Sansa . . . do you know what you do to me?” He asked. “Do you know how much I love you?”

His body was so heavy over hers, Sansa had difficulty breathing and she was gasping for air. “Donal . . . I- I thank you for your . . . _regard_.” She was searching for the right words to say, the right courtesies to soothe him, but couldn’t find them. “But, but you know I love Jaime . . .”

“The _Kingslayer_ ,” he almost spat out the word. “He’s a man without honor!”

She almost sobbed in fear. “Please . . . Donal . . . you are not yourself. I know you for an _honorable_ man yourself . . .” She pleaded with him, her voice as soft as she could make it.

He drew a throaty laugh at that. “Honorable? I’m an outlaw, little queen. A killer and a rapist at that. I have even less honor than your _Kingslayer_. Think I never shoved my cock through an unwilling woman’s cunt? It’s a bloody wonder I restrained myself that long around you, but the thought of gold in exchange for your pretty little person kept me in check. And maybe even . . . _love_ for you. No longer.” He slurred those words heavily, which told Sansa he was extremely drunk. He continued. “That and the fact that we all know you’re no longer a maid. Every time you fucked the Kingslayer, we could all hear your pretty little moans through the holdfast, making each and every one of us hard. I swear to the gods, every single time I wanted to shove my cock up your cunt, but Willis said not to touch you. It was either the fist for me or that ugly wench that passes as the cook around here. But tonight, I’m having you, little queen.”

“But why? Why are you doing this? Why now?” Sansa tried to struggle underneath Antos’ large, crushing body but it was hopeless. She could barely move. He was far too heavy.

He laughed at that, making Sansa’s blood freeze in her veins in pure terror. “Because no one is ransoming you, little queen. And besides, I am tired of waiting to _fuck_ you.”

Sansa looked at him eyes wide with fear. “No . . . Donal, please no,” she pleaded with him again.

“It’s not going to work this time, your insipid pleading. Back then, I was doing it for the gold. Now, there’s nothing holding me back.”

He nuzzled her, licking at the soft skin of her neck. Sansa was sobbing and she turned her head away, not wanting to let him kiss her. Praying for Jaime to return. _Now_.

As Antos was slobbering all over her, trying to kiss her while he struggled with her nightgown, Sansa managed to pull her right arm free and tentatively searched under the pillows for the knife Jaime had taken from the hall earlier. She knew it was under one of them. Her heart beating wildly in fear, and reaching as far as she could go, her arm straining painfully almost out of its socket, she finally touched the cold sharp blade with the tip of her fingers.

Then she heard Antos swear loudly when his hand made its way between her legs, his fingers covered with her moonblood.

“Fuck, you’re bleeding!” He growled almost in disgust. Then, “Fuck it. I’ll have you nonetheless. That I fuck you bloody or that you’re already bleeding makes no difference to me.” He wiped his fingers on her nightgown.

Sansa whimpered while one of his hands tried to pull at her smallclothes, ripping them open. He then tentatively reached the other one to cover her mouth so he could stifle her moans. She strained again for the knife under the pillow. Finally, she curled her fingers around the blade, cutting them in the process and almost making her hiss in pain. Manipulating the knife again, this time she managed to grasp the handle instead of the blade.

Donal Antos was now in the process of ripping out her shift, freeing her breasts. “Fuck,” he said again. “I had an idea your teats would look nice little queen, but I had no real clue as to how nice they really are.” He chuckled darkly before he lowered his head to her chest, his dark hair trailing over her skin, and licked wetly at one of her nipples with the flat of his tongue.

Sansa whimpered loudly in disgust and bit down hard on Donal’s hand, tasting the coppery tang of blood. He let out a cry of pain and swore loudly, for one second forgetting about her.

That was all the time she needed. Screwing up her courage—and in a loud roar she could not believe came from her throat—she drove the sharp blade into his neck, making his blood gush in sprays with every single beat of his heart, covering Sansa in thick, sticky red blood.

Antos screeched and reached backwards, stumbling, his hand going to the small gaping wound in his neck to try and stop the blood from seeping from it, looking at her in surprise. In that instant, it was as if the Donal Antos she knew came back and he looked actually sorry for what he’d just done. “Little queen,” he whispered before dropping to his knees and then to the flagstone floor, his eyes slowly becoming glassy in death while a pool of blood slowly formed around his neck and head as his life’s blood slipped away.

Sansa was sobbing hysterically as she clutched the bloody kitchen knife in her hand.

That was when Jaime returned with Xenios Andres.

They both stood rooted at the entrance of the bedchamber, looking over a very dead and bloodied Donal Antos and Sansa who was still clutching at the bloody knife while covered in the dead wolf’s blood, her breasts hanging out of her ripped nightgown as her other hand was desperately grasping at the tattered remains of the fabric to try and hide her nakedness.

Then Jaime reacted quickly.

Spinning around, he hit the master swordsman in the stomach with both his left hand and his stump with all his strength, making Xenios bend in two in pain while Jaime roared in agony before putting all his weight behind his next move as he hit the Braavosi at the back of the neck with both arms, sending him sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

Jaime was bent in two, breathing with difficulty. The agony he was in plainly etched upon his features as he grimaced in pain and grunted.

“Help . . . help me drag him into the room.” He managed to say, gasping through gritted teeth.

Sansa blinked hard, as if she was suddenly waking up.

Dropping the bloody knife, she went to Jaime’s side and grabbed one of Xenios’ arms while Jaime did the same with the other. Together, they pulled the unresponsive Braavosi into their bedchamber and Sansa hurriedly closed the door and pulled the lock.

“We have to tie him up,” she heard him say. He went to the bed and took a blanket. “Sansa, I need you to tie him up . . .  yes . . . that’s it . . . like that. Tie the knots together as hard as you can.”

Sansa finished tying the Braavosi with the blanket as tightly as she could while Jaime ripped part of another sheet and shoved it down Xenios’ mouth.

“Sansa, that wasn’t the plan, but we have to leave _now_.” Then, taking her by the shoulders with his left hand gripping her right shoulder tightly and the stump of his right arm resting lightly on her left he asked her evenly, “What happened?”

Sansa’s mind suddenly became clear and cool—in fact, she’d never felt like this before, almost as if there was a new clarity to her every thought, as if she was in complete control. “He tried to rape me,” she said simply, pointing at Donal Antos’ body cooling on the flagstone floor.

She felt detached, while saying this, as if this had just happened to someone else.

“The Others take him to all the seven hells,” Jaime spat, an anger she’d never heard before in his voice.

He then went to Donal Antos’ body and, kneeling beside him, he struggled to remove Oathkeeper and its scabbard from the dead wolf’s hips while Sansa went to the washbasin to clean the blood off her hands and her face.

As soon as she plunged them into the cool water it ran red with blood. Suddenly, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if something was pressing on her chest, feeling the room around her start to spin as her vision slowly became out of focus and everything almost turned to white.

She heard Jaime’s voice call to her as if from a great distance: “Sansa . . . Sansa . . .” She turned her head slowly toward him, her vision coming into focus again. She blinked. Then, looking at herself through the mirror, she cleaned herself of the blood that had splashed over her face, her neck, her chest; taking great care to remove every single speck of blood that had belonged to Donal Antos from her body.

Finishing cleaning herself quickly but efficiently, she then went and knelt beside Jaime and laid a trembling hand on his arm. “Let me help you.” She quickly removed the sword and scabbard and helped Jaime put it around his hips but to his right instead of his left. Then she gave him a hand with the few pieces of armor he’d kept with him: pauldron, breastplate and gardbrace. Finally, she helped him put on his armbraces and his left gauntlet, keeping the right one in his bag.

Jaime clumsily clutched at Oathkeeper’s handle with his left hand, testing the weight of the blade and how it felt in this new hand. Sansa stared at him in silence while he went by Xenios Andres’ side who had by now slowly regained consciousness.

This one was trying to make sounds that were muffled by the cloth jammed into his mouth. Jaime knelt by his side and murmured “I’m sorry,” slipping Oathkeeper between the man’s ribs and right through his heart in one clumsy stroke.

“One less outlaw to worry about,” he said simply, wiping the blood from the blade on one of the bed’s remaining blankets. “We have to leave now, Sansa. As discreetly and silently as we can. I don’t think we will be missed for a few hours at least but we need that time to put as many leagues between us and the rest of the Black Wolves.”

Sansa nodded and quickly changed, discarding her ripped and bloodied nightgown into the fireplace and throwing on one of her woolen dresses. Next she helped Jaime with his cloak before putting on her own woolen garment over her shoulders.

“Let’s go,” Jaime whispered.

Sansa’s heart started pounding hard in her chest.


	8. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back on the Quiet Isle, Sandor Clegane learns of Sansa Stark's departure from King's Landing with Jaime Lannister and decides to hold to his promise to take her home and keep her safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this AU drabble was written with the HBO characters in mind so the physical descriptions will match the actors playing them.
> 
> Also, this story has not been Beta'd and English is my second language. Apologies for spelling/grammatical errors that may have crept in :-)

**Sandor**

Sandor Clegane had had his fill of digging graves and holy buggering brothers. As soon as he’d heard that the little bird had flown from her cage in King’s Landing with the Lion of Lannister, heading for Casterly Rock, he’d gone to see the Elder Brother and told him he was leaving the Quiet Isle.

The Elder Brother had not refused him, though he had questioned the wisdom of him leaving the Isle just yet. “Why leave now, Brother Digger? I fear you have not entirely buried the Hound yet, though if I recall, I did build a grave for him by the Trident. Does this Stark girl mean so much to you that you would leave us and return to a world of violence?”

Sandor had stood quiet, listening to what the man who’d saved his life had to say, but Sandor’s resolve was unmoved. He’d once promised to keep Sansa Stark safe, and that’s what he was going to do. He had wasted enough time on the Quiet Isle, digging graves and trying to forget her while healing his wounds; both physical and spiritual.

But Sandor could never forget the little bird. She was etched upon his heart, upon his very soul. He’d lately often dreamed of her, would often see her beautiful, heart-shaped face and those eyes . . . eyes as blue as a calm summer sea that always seemed to drown him.

He would often replay the last words they had both said to each other when he’d left her behind, on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, while Stannis Baratheon and his army were knocking at the very gates of the Red Keep.

“You won’t hurt me,” she’d said to him, seeing the realization dawning on her, as much a question as it was a statement to him.

“No little bird, I won’t hurt you,” he had answered back with bitterness.

And there was the truth of it: Sandor Clegane knew he would, _could,_ never hurt Sansa Stark.

But Sandor’s heart had broken into a million tiny pieces at that very moment and the only thing left to him had been to leave her behind. He could never have forced her to come with him now, could he? Could not have thrown her over his shoulder—just as he’d done when he’d saved her from her would-be rapists during the bread riots back in King’s Landing. Before the Blackwater was set on fire by that shit of a dwarf, Tyrion Lannister.

But now, now he would find her. He would save her from the Lion’s grasp, and bring her back north so that she could take her place as the rightful Queen in the North. Sandor had made up his mind that he would offer her his sword and his protection; that he would become her sworn shield.

“You very well know how I feel about the girl, about Sansa Stark,” Sandor had rasped, answering the Elder Brother’s question, his voice even and low. “You were the one to take my fucking confession as I lay shivering and dying by the banks of the bloody Trident. She’s finally out of King’s Landing and on her way to Casterly Rock. This is my chance to save her. I’ll take her back north, take her back to Winterfell. I’ll keep her safe.”

The Elder Brother had learned that Ser Jaime Lannister was taking Sansa Stark to Casterly Rock from a group of pilgrims traveling from Maidenpool to the Isle just a fortnight ago. Of course, the Isle being rather small, news had soon reached Sandor’s ears—even if the holy brothers were sworn to silence. Sandor, not having taken any vows yet, was not bound by such an oath.

Sandor looked closely into the Elder Brother’s face—a former soldier’s face—just like him. This one had listened without saying a word to all of Sandor’s arguments.

“I cannot stop you from leaving the Quiet Isle,” he finally said. Then he cocked his head to the right and asked, “If you go to her, _if_ you find her and save her and help her and she does not return the same depth of feelings you have for her, what will you do? Will the Hound take what he wants, or will Sandor Clegane respect her choice?”

“I would never hurt her,” Sandor almost growled.

“No. I believe you wouldn’t,” replied the Elder Brother. Then he sighed. “Go then, with our blessing, Brother Digger. We will return to you your mail and armor and a new helmet—I believe there must be one lying around in Brother Mark’s smithy. And we will also provide you with a purse full of coins to help you on your way. There might even be a decent sword for you kept here somewhere. The incoming tide sometimes brings us strange and wonderful things,” he smiled kindly at Sandor. “I will pray to the Seven that you find Sansa Stark, _and_ that you do indeed keep her safe.”

*****

Sandor had made his way back from the Hermit’s Hole to his small cell in the cloister area still limping slightly on his bad leg. He was ready to prepare his meagre belongings and wait for the Elder Brother to return to him with coin, armor and sword.

He was well aware he was no longer the dangerous, fearsome warrior he once was, but for her, for Sansa, he’d be the Hound again if that was what she wanted, what she _needed_ from him. However, he hoped that she would choose Sandor Clegane over King Joffrey’s former Dog.

His body was thankfully still strong and well-honed, thanks to his gravedigging duties which had kept him well-muscled and lean. Breaking the cold, hard ground, shovelling dirt day after day after day, and carrying dead bodies had kept him strong enough. Now, he just had to exchange his shovel for a sword again. Sandor had a feeling it would be easier said than done, but he reminded himself that he was doing this for her, for Sansa Stark.

As of late, he’d often dreamed of the little bird. More so than usual. At first, his dreams had been quite chaste, before they turned ever more so lurid.

They were often taking place in her bedchamber during the Battle of the Blackwater. But instead of her looking him deep in the eye saying “You won’t hurt me,” she would come close to him and she would raise her beautiful heart-shaped face to his, wrap her slender arms around his neck, and kiss him with a fiery passion he knew deep down she would be capable of, before drawing him on top of her onto her soft feather bed where he would fuck her hard and fast until she screamed in pleasure.

Or the dream would take place on the Serpentine Steps, where once he’d caught her returning to her bedchamber crying, when he’d called himself a Dog and her a Bird. Joffrey’s Bird. Asking her for a song. _Demanding_ it, “SING!” he’d growled at her while he grabbed her arm roughly. Before that blasted Imp interrupted them. But in his dreams, Tyrion would never (thankfully) appear, and Sansa would give him another type of song, raising her skirts over the swell of her womanly hips and turning around to press her slender body against the cold stone wall, while she would look back round at him hungrily. She would have on no smallclothes, showing him her sweet, firm arse and her pink, wet cunt; and Sandor would struggle with the laces of his breeches, now too tight over his hard, aching cock, his hands still encased in his steel gauntlets. And when he’d finally released his stiff member, he would have her there, pounding into her, making her cry out in ecstasy with each jerk of his hips.

Sandor would then wake with his cock as hard as Valyrian steel and aching, already leaking fluid at its tip, smearing his shift and his stomach, his warm calloused hand already closed around his engorged member. And every time that happened, he would stroke himself to release into a rag he kept hidden under his straw pallet, while muffling his grunts of pleasure into the uncomfortable mattress.

Sandor was ready to leave, having changed from his hated brown-and-dun brother’s robes into a warm woolen tunic and breeches, and soft leather boots, when a light knock at his door brought him to the present moment. He blinked as if waking up from a deep slumber, before he slowly went to open his door, making sure to hide and cover the stiff bulge that had swollen just below his tunic at the arousing recollection of the dreams he’d had of the little bird.

The Elder Brother and Brother Narbert were both standing outside, carrying huge heavy bundles of cloth in their arms.

“We have what you need, Brother Digger,” the Elder Brother said as they brushed past him and entered his small cell, depositing their bundles on Sandor’s straw pallet. They made loud clunking noises as they were put on the bed.

Brother Narbert then gave him a sour look—while Sandor smirked back at him—just before he left the cell without a word. It wasn’t his turn to speak, after all, so he had to stay quiet, just the way Sandor liked him. He was well aware everything he fucking did rubbed Brother Narbert the wrong way.

Sandor then turned back towards the Elder Brother who’d stood waiting for him with his arms shoved back inside his large bell sleeves.

“Brother Jerôme will be waiting for you and he will help you and Drift- _Stranger_ make your way through the mudflats. Then you can head east towards Darry—though you will want to avoid the place entirely—and then make your way inland towards Casterly Rock. Or west to Maidenpool, where you could take a ship that would take you all the way around Westeros and up to the Rock, but the trip could be hazardous since autumn storms are upon us.”

“I think I’d rather take my chances inland, Elder Brother. I don’t like ships much,” Sandor rasped. Ships could founder and _sink_. Ships could _burn_. There were pirates roaming the Narrow Sea besides. Sandor preferred to ride hard on Stranger and make his slow way towards the Westerlands. For him, he would simply be heading home, and he knew the countryside well enough to hopefully make his way safely to the Rock.

“Very well,” the man with the large square head and veined nose told him kindly. “We will be waiting for you at the mudflats in two hours’ time.” Then the Elder Brother left Sandor alone again in his cell.

He looked fixedly at the bundles on his bed before he reached for them. Opening the first one carefully, he barely recognized his old armor which had been cleaned and polished to a nice shine. Taking each piece out one by one he then struggled to put them on, but in the end, he managed well alone so used he’d been to put it on by himself at times, and the familiarity of it comforted Sandor.

Once the armor covered his large body again, Sandor opened the other bundle. He hissed loudly at the sight that welcomed him.

Lying there, halfway into its scabbard, was a bastard sword with steel pale as milk. “Fuck. The Elder Brother did say the tides would sometimes bring in strange and wonderful things,” Sandor murmured appreciatively. And this sword _definitely_ was a wonderful thing he had never seen the likes of before in his life.

Sandor took it out slowly from its simple, leather scabbard and looked at the sword closely. The blade shone white, not a clear white or even silver like regular steel, but a white with a milky hue to it. In the pommel was carved the head of a snarling black dog in onyx, strangely enough. _Is that the work of Brother Mark, the Quiet Isle’s smith?_ Sandor thought it too much of a coincidence that it was a dog on that sword’s pommel. He had the distinct impression that the Elder Brother knew all along that Sandor would leave the Isle at some point and return to his hard life as a warrior.

Taking it fully out of its scabbard with two hands, Sandor then weighed the blade in his right one, looking at it admiringly and feeling how the sword actually fit into his large hand.

It felt wonderful holding a blade again; wonderful and completely natural to him—as well as a little passing strange. Sandor had definitely missed the feel of strong steel after using and wielding a shovel for digging graves for so long.

He whirled the sword around and liked how it sang in the air. The song of steel was sweeter in his ears than any other songs—unless, perhaps, one sung by the little bird herself. It was less heavy than his great sword which he carried onto his back, but it was heavier and longer than the long sword he usually cinched around his hips.

He definitely liked the feel of this strange new sword in his hand so much better.

Slowly sliding it back into its simple leather scabbard, he then put it around his hips before digging back into the cloth bundle. There he found a simple steel helm which he threw carelessly onto the bed and a purse full of copper coins and silver dragons. The purse was heavy, and Sandor wondered how in the seven buggering hells the Elder Brother could have so much coin on the Island. _More strange and wonderful things coming in with the tide_ , he thought, chuckling to himself.

When he was ready, Sandor made his way slowly to the whitewashed stable with a thatched roof. His black courser Stranger was in the very last stall. Seeing its master, the horse neighed softly. Sandor patted his warhorse’s muzzle and whispered in its ear, “We’re leaving this place, Stranger, we’re heading for the Rock where we’ll rescue Sansa, and then we’ll head north to Winterfell, where the little bird will become Queen in the North. As she should be.”

Sandor then saddled Stranger. When his horse was ready, he filled a bag with oats and attached it to his courser’s saddle. Taking the tether firmly in his right hand and pulling at it slightly, he exited the stable and made his way slowly to the mudflats all the while swearing inwardly at his sodding limping leg. _Shit, will the little bird even_ want _me as her sworn shield with that blasted limp? Seven bleeding hells! How can I even protect her if I can’t even fucking walk properly?_ Sandor knew he would have to work very hard to hide this . . . small detail from her. He shook his head. _I’ll have to use my time on the road to learn how to walk without showing that fucking limp._

Sandor was deep in thought when before he knew it he’d made his way to the mudflats where the Elder Brother and Brother Jerôme were already waiting for him.

“Ah. I see you’re already wearing your new sword around your hips,” the Elder Brother said appreciatively. “I have only seen its like once as a very young man, Dawn, it was, the sword of Ser Arthur Dayne—the Sword of the Morning—which was said to have been made from metal forged from the heart of a fallen star. This is not Dawn, but this sword has been kept preciously hidden in the Hermit’s Hole for some years now, ever since it washed up on the Quiet Isle. Perhaps it was a sister sword forged at the same time by the same smith? I do not know. But it is as strong as Valyrian steel and it has been waiting for a strong, _worthy_ warrior to wield it again. And who better than the _reformed_ Hound to wield it on his righteous quest to free the woman he loves? The pommel was a simple one, I’m afraid, but I had Brother Mark make an appropriate new pommel for you, Brother Digger. A snarling black dog,” he laughed heartily.

“It is a nice sword,” Sandor agreed. He lowered his eyes to it, looking at the head of the black snarling dog. “I know I can never fully repay you for all you’ve done for me. Saving my sodding life . . . helping me try to gentle the rage I had inside me . . . giving me all this. I don’t fucking deserve it all,” Sandor said, lowering his eyes to the ground and shifting uneasily on his feet.

“Save and bring Lady Stark safely back home, Brother Digger. When she is finally installed as the Queen in the North, and peace is brought to the Seven Kingdoms once more, it will be thanks enough.”

*****

After riding hard West for days, following the Red Fork of the Trident for miles, Sandor arrived at an inn called the Inn of the Kneeling Man. Sandor knew its history. It was situated near the spot where the old King in the North—and Sansa’s very ancestor—King Torrhen Stark, had bent the knee to King Aegon I Targaryen and his flaming dragons . . .  them, and his 45,000 strong army.

The long building had low wings stretching out, and it sat along the Trident’s shore, right where the river bent. He looked over the grey stone that made up the lower story, while the upper one was built out of whitewashed wood, with a roof made of slate.

Sandor smirked to himself when he saw the begging man on the inn’s painted sign. _He was a fucking kneeler, but then again . . . dragons breathe fucking_ fire.

He slowly unhorsed near the stable and a young boy no older than twelve, Sandor reckoned by his looks, ran out of the inn to try and take Stranger away from him. _I killed my first man at twelve_ , he remembered darkly as he looked at the bedraggled youth.

“Don’t touch my horse, _boy_ , if you don’t want to lose that hand,” he rasped.

The young boy skidded to a stop and looked at him eyes wide with sudden fright—and something that looked a little like awe—at his words, his mouth gaping wide while he stared at Stranger.

Sandor had hid his face and his tell-tale burns deep within the large cowl of his dark grey woolen cloak, so no one would recognize him as the Hound. His reputation was already tarnished by his flight from King’s Landing on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, and had only been made worse by the outlaw who had sacked and raped and killed his way through Saltpans and the Riverlands while wearing his snarling dog’s helm. A dog’s helm left on the Hound’s false grave by the Elder Brother, the one he’d erected by the Trident as Sandor lay dying.  

Sandor promised himself he’d kill the man slowly if and when he came across him.

“Lead me to a stall; I’ll take care of my horse. Then you can get back inside and tell the innkeep to get a room ready for me and bring food and wine up, I’ll eat there. Make sure there are no fucking fleas in the bed,” Sandor rasped to the boy.

This one nodded slowly while still staring open-mouthed at Stranger again, and then he led them both to a stall in the stable—one well away from the other few horses there.

Sandor dug a coin from his purse and threw it at him. “What’s your name, boy,” Sandor asked.

“Benjen,” the young boy said, smiling broadly when he saw the nice shining copper coin in his dirty outstretched hand.

_Fuck. Sansa has an uncle in the Night’s Watch named Benjen, does she not? Along with her bastard half-brother, Jon Snow._

“Go back inside Benjen and do as I ask. There will be another coin for you on the morrow when I leave.”

The boy nodded again and left Sandor in the stable, running back toward the inn, surely eager to please someone he was probably mistaking for a rich knight or a lord. Sandor snorted through his nose at the thought. How he fucking hated knights and lords and all the shit and piss they stood for.

Sandor had often tried to shake the little bird up so she could see knights for what they truly were. “Knights are for killing,” he’d once told her. The girl had her head in the clouds, her views of knights tinted through a rose colored glass by all those songs she loved so much.

And towards the end, before he left her behind in King’s Landing, Sansa Stark finally knew the right of it when he’d tried to make her sing one of her beloved songs. “I don’t know any songs. Not anymore,” she’d told him, taking him completely by surprise.

After feeding Stranger, watering him and brushing his dark coat, Sandor made his way toward the Inn of the Kneeling Man, his dark grey cloak billowing in the cool wind. Inside, it was eerily empty, with only a few men taking their meals in sullen silence and drinking deep from their tankards of ale.

Benjen saw him from the back of the main hall and almost ran towards him in his eagerness. “My ma has a room ready for you,” he said happily. “If you’ll follow me, ser.”

“I’m no ser,” Sandor growled. “Nor am I a fucking lord.” How he hated being called a ser. He recalled how the little bird used to call him that sometimes instead of using his name, Sandor. . . or even Clegane. But back then, he’d only been King Joffrey’s dog. “I’m a dog, remember? King Joffrey’s Dog,” he’d barked at her when she’d called him “ser” one too many times again.

The boy blushed a deep scarlet from head to toe, making Sandor actually feel bad that he’d snapped at him. He looked at the kid sideways as this one led him up one flight of stairs to his room. He was brown haired and brown eyed with freckles covering his face. The boy was of medium height but thin and lanky besides and reminded Sandor a little of himself as a child. Before he became as massive as he was now. Before he became a killer.

“Doesn’t your mother feed you, boy?” Sandor asked. Why was he even asking the kid that? He didn’t care one whit what his mother did with him or if she fed him. In fact, it wasn’t any hair off his arse. _Damn the Elder Brother and his kind ways. They may be rubbing off on me more than I care about._

The boy smiled ruefully. “She does but she says I’m growing as fast as bad weed.”

Sandor tried to suppress a slight smile that threatened to appear over his scarred features and looked at him silently, saying no more until Benjen had taken him to his room.

*****

Sandor Clegane bloody well knew he was dreaming. He was back in the little bird’s bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast, back in King’s Landing. He wasn’t wearing any armor, just a simple tunic and some soft leather breeches and boots.

He looked around but there was no one else there but him.

 _Just like on the night of the battle, when I hid in her room, waiting for her to return and almost drunk out of my mind._ Sandor saw the chair and went to sit on it. _She should be in any time now._

Right enough, Sansa entered the room just as he was thinking about her. But instead of going toward her bed and grabbing that ugly little doll of hers, she went directly to him.

“Sandor,” she said as she stood before him.

He stood up, towering over her a good head, even if Sansa Stark was quite a tall woman herself (because she was a _woman_ and not a girl anymore, he mused, looking her over).

“Little bird,” he said. His heart had started racing in his chest, his pulse quickening to an alarming speed and he feared Sansa would be able to hear.

She pressed her hand over his chest, the heat of her smooth skin radiating through his tunic. “You’re so warm,” she whispered as she intently kept it pressed over his thundering heart. Then she raised her face up to his, her Tully-blue eyes half-closed wantonly.

He lowered his head, his lips capturing hers, his tongue parting her already opened and expectant lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her slender body bending to his, and moaned into their kiss as his tongue slid wetly against hers. His cock was already stiffening in his breeches as he knew what would come next.

Sansa dragged him with her to the bed, and, lying back on it, she quickly pulled her skirts up while she panted in excitement.

Sandor stared at her as she spread her long legs open wide for him and he saw her pink wet cunt since she wasn’t wearing any smallclothes. He felt his cock throb almost painfully as his hard member was pressing against the laces of his breeches. Reaching down—while still staring at the little bird’s inviting cunt—he undid his laces as quick as he could and reached to release his shaft from its prison.

With a guttural groan that rumbled from deep within his chest, he climbed onto the soft feather mattress, pressing both him and Sansa heavily into the bed.

She squirmed underneath him, before she wrapped her slender long legs around his waist, her hips jumping against his. “Sandor, please fuck me hard again,” he heard her say, her voice an arousing moan as she grabbed his tunic  and brought him in again for a deep kiss, their tongues rolling against each other wetly.

Fuck him, but he was going to fuck her hard, just like he knew she liked it. Taking hold of his stiff member, he pressed it against her wet folds, and in one rough push he entered her, making her gasp loudly in pleasure while he almost roared his.

Without skipping a beat, he started pounding into her as she dug her heels into the small of his back, moaning loudly with each of his deep thrusts inside her.

Her hands were scraping at the back of his scalp, but he didn’t care about that. Sandor only cared about the pleasure they were giving each other and that his little bird squirmed in ecstasy underneath him while his cock was almost exquisitely crushed into her tight wetness, making him shudder in pure bliss.

He was fucking into her almost desperately, not wanting the dream to end. Wanting to keep her in his arms for as long as he could, wanting to hold on to what little part, little scrap of her he could get. Knowing that the real Sansa probably would never let him come that close to her, or even let him touch her.

So he fucked her until she fell apart underneath him, until she came with a loud wail and he kissed her and kissed her as he reached his release inside her, his cock pulsing so hard he could see stars behind his eyelids.

His heart still beating hard in his chest, he rolled onto his back and held her in his arms just as the dream started to slowly fade away. “Sansa, please, stay with me Sansa. _Please_.”

Just then, Sandor woke up. Woke up to the reality of his situation. _I’m alone in that inn. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give for some more wine or a whore right now; even a slightly unwilling one._ Sandor breathed in deeply, feeling that his cock was as hard as that new sword of his.

He grunted as his hand made its way down his body, slowly stroking over his hard stomach and down to his groin, where his twitching member was resting hot and heavy and wet against his belly. Pushing the blankets aside, he slowly spread the wetness over the tip of his cockhead with his thumb before he started stroking himself desperately. His hips rising up and down as he fucked heatedly into his calloused hand.

He was grunting hard, the first time in a long time where he didn’t have to muffle the sounds of his pleasure. There were no holy buggering silent brothers sleeping in cells next to his. No one to hear him grunt and groan. So he let go, grunting and moaning as his pleasure built inside him, letting his mind get flooded by the images of his little bird wanting him deep inside her, seeing her long legs spread open wide for him, thinking about her pink wet cunt, how she would squirm and moan underneath him.

In no time, Sandor could feel his balls hardening, feeling his release so close now he could almost taste it. Reaching his other hand down he cupped his clenching balls and stroke harder, increasing the pressure over his cock, stopping to spread the moisture over his cockhead with his thumb and press it against the little knot of flesh on the underside of his thick hard shaft, making him shiver in pleasure.

 _Oh fuck, I’m going to come soon._ His hips were rearing wildly off the bed and he suddenly hissed as his seed surged in thick white spurts all over his stomach and his hands.

Breathing heavily, he let the full force of his climax hit as a massive wave crashed through him, his whole body shuddering in raw pleasure. Sandor kept on pumping his hard member with his fist, trying to draw out the feeling of bliss that had overtaken him while he thought of her, of Sansa. Not wanting it to end just yet.

Then, slowing his strokes, he finally stilled on the bed as his breathing slowly returned to normal, his heart pumping hard in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears.

Rising from the bed, he slowly made his way to the washbasin that was sitting on the small table in his room. Sandor took a clean cloth and cleaned himself of his seed carefully, wiping away the stickiness. There was also a looking glass there, and Sandor caught a glimpse of himself in it.

Putting the cloth down, Sandor stared at his reflection, the dying embers in the small fireplace still giving out an orangey glow, making the face that looked back at him seem even more grotesque. As he looked over the reddish scars that covered the right side of his face from the middle of his forehead, over his right eye and across his cheek bone and down to the back of his neck, including his ear; at the sleepy, messy hair that was still parted and combed over to cover the burned side, Sandor grew suddenly angry. _You’re an old, scarred, ugly dog_ , he thought bitterly. _The little bird will never look at you twice, never want you,_ never _love you._ Dreams _are all you have. Dreams that will never come true._ _So you better take a good long look at yourself and wake the fuck up, dog. Sansa_ bloody _Stark deserves better than you. You’ve nothing to offer her but your ferocity and your sword._

Sandor knew the only thing he could ever be to Sansa Stark was her sworn shield; although he had almost made himself believe into thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, he could be _more_ to her. _She’s a proper lady,_ dog _, kind and courteous. You’ll never get her. Never. So you better wake up and take a good whiff at reality._

Sandor could feel the anger build inside him and without thinking he punched the looking glass with his right fist, almost pulverising it. Looking at his knuckles dully, he saw they were bleeding. Then he choked up, and for the first time since he’d laid dying by the Trident, Sandor Clegane wept.

*****

The next morning, after breaking his fast and paying the innkeep for the room, the meals, and the broken mirror, Sandor climbed onto Stranger’s back, ready to depart the Inn of the Kneeling Man to keep on following the Red Fork of the Trident south by way of Riverrun until he reached the mountains and Horndale—the seat of House Brax. Sandor knew he would have to avoid both locations before crossing the mountains, laying low and trying to avoid both the Brave Companions and the Brotherhood Without Banners until he reached Casterly Rock. He certainly didn’t want to come across the Brotherhood again. _Lord Beric may be dead but there is this_ Lady _Stoneheart leading them now. The former Lady Catelyn Stark, Sansa’s mother. She wouldn’t look too kindly on one of King Joff’s former Kingsguard and the young king’s former dog._

A slight drizzle had started falling, cold and wet, and Sandor’s hood was once again pulled well over his head and he was ready to depart when he saw Benjen making his way toward him on a white horse as lanky as the kid was.

“What are you doing, boy?” Sandor asked when he noticed the garron was fully packed with a bedroll, pans and pots, what looked like food, and other things needed for travelling. Sandor had a sinking feeling the kid, Benjen, wanted to follow him.

He saw him blush a deep red as Benjen answered him. “I want to be your squire s- m’lord,” he blushed again and became even redder if that was even possible.

“I don’t need a fucking squire,” Sandor growled, exasperated.

“Please m’lord, my ma says it’s fine I follow you. She may not have enough to feed us all come the winter and she says I should make my mark on this world.”

Sandor glowered hard at the boy. _I don’t need a fucking squire to follow me around_. “I’m not a knight, boy, that I would need a bloody whelping squire to follow me around like a pup,” Sandor snarled.

The boy looked away for a second before looking back at him, holding his intense gaze. “I know who you are,” the boy said, surprising him.

He barked out a laugh. “And who am I?” Sandor asked, truly curious.

“You’re the former Lannister Hound,” he answered almost timidly.

Sandor only stared at him. _How the fuck did the kid know that. He never saw my scarred face . . . or did he?_

“And what makes you say that, _boy_.”

Benjen pointed at Stranger. “First it was your warhorse,” he answered quickly. “Then I saw the snarling dog’s head sculpted on the pommel of your sword.”

“And you concluded I was this . . . _Hound_ from my horse and my sword?” _Fuck, the boy_ is _observant_. “And if I were, shouldn’t you be scared of me, boy? I’m the supposed Butcher of Saltpans,” he almost spat those words, feeling himself simmering in anger again. Breathing slowly, he willed himself to keep calm, to keep his temper in check.

Benjen reddened again. “My ma always said I had a keen eye and a good mind. She wanted me to be a Maester but I don’t like studying. But I like swords,” he said hopefully.

Sandor barked out another laugh. Then, “Sorry kid, but I travel alone.”

He kicked Stranger to make him turn round and left the Inn of the Kneeling Man at a trot, not looking back to see if Benjen was following him, knowing all the while that he would.

 _Maybe I do need a squire after all_ , Sandor mused, _if I’m to become Sansa Stark’s proper sworn shield. At the very least, it’d be nice to have someone do the cooking for a change. And if I work the boy hard enough, maybe he’ll finally leave me alone._

Some hours later, when Sandor Clegane finally turned round to look behind him, he saw Benjen was still following him at a safe distance on his lanky white horse.

Resigned, he sighed.


	9. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having finally escaped the Black Wolves, Jaime Lannister and Sansa Stark find themselves at Deep Den. But all is not well with Sansa.

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister stopped pacing the short length of stone hallway in front of Sansa’s bedchamber door when the old maester of House Lydden finally came out of her room.

“How is she?” he asked at once, not wanting for Maester Kieran to draw out what Jaime knew could be bad, perhaps even terrible news. For the first time since he’d begun his . . . _affair_ with Sansa, he realized how much he was in love with Ned Stark’s beautiful eldest daughter, and he was actually terrified of losing her, terrified that she could _die_. Jaime felt as if the Stark girl had slipped under his skin and he couldn’t shake her off.

She hadn’t stopped bleeding the whole time they’d made their daring and dangerous escape from the Black Wolves’ holdfast towards Deep Den. Jaime kept pushing their horses to run at breakneck speeds, barely stopping to eat or even sleep. Not only was he worried the Black Wolves would catch them up, but he’d started noticing how ill Sansa was, the blood loss scaring him while she’d tried her best at first to hide it from him, not wanting to worry him. But Jaime _was_ worried.

Sansa had been so weak by the time they’d arrived in Lord Lewys Lydden’s castle that Jaime had had to carry her in his arms through the castle’s threshold, holding on to her with his left arm while his handless right one was wrapped tightly around her almost limp body before she was carried away by the tall captain of the guards from House Lydden. Her face had been so pale, so deathly white it looked as if she were a living ghost, a spirit, a _wight_.

“The bleeding has thankfully stopped,” the old maester said in a thin, almost tremulous voice that somehow reminded Jaime of old Maester Pycelle. “It will be no more moon tea for her, Ser Jaime, I’m afraid. Her reaction to the brew has been quite violent—especially since she’s lost a child, no doubt. Hmm yes.”  The maester gave him a sad nod.

Jaime felt his blood freeze in his veins at Maester Kieran’s words. _Sansa was pregnant with my child . . . and I killed it . . . I almost killed_ her _._ The news hit him hard after Jaime stood almost unbelieving at the maester’s words, before it truly sunk in. _I could have had another son or a daughter with Sansa. One that could have looked just like her, with hair the color of autumn leaves kissed by the sun and Tully-blue eyes. The gods forgive my folly._

Gathering himself he asked, “Can I see her?”

“You can, Ser Jaime. But she is very weak, hmm yes indeed, and I’ve given her some milk of the poppy to help her sleep. She will need to recuperate her strength. Hmm yes. It may be some time before you are able to leave Deep Den for Casterly Rock, I’m afraid.”

Jaime didn’t care one whit about Casterly Rock, he only cared about Sansa.

“I want to see her,” he said again in a commanding tone he’d often used with his own men of the Kingsguard. Jaime did not even wait for Maester Kieran’s reply and brushed passed him, pushing the heavy oaken door open with his left hand and walking slowly into Sansa’s room, all the while fearing the sight that would greet him.

The heavy curtains were closed against the midday sun, shutting the light of day out of Sansa’s bedchamber. There was a fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace, the flames licking at the darkened stones, chasing out the cold and making the room feel warmer than a summer’s day, bathing it in an almost eerie golden hue.

Jaime made his way soundlessly to the large bed which stood in the middle of the room, the massively sculpted headboard resting on the far wall in front of him.

As he came near Sansa, he saw her prone body underneath the covers. Jaime’s breath caught in his throat as he took in her deathly white face—she was even paler than she’d been earlier. She was sleeping on her right side and her breathing was shallow while her right hand was resting lightly against her brow.

He reached his good hand to her and touched her forehead. It was cold and clammy.

Swallowing hard, Jaime sat on the side of the large bed, the soft feather mattress sinking underneath his weight. Sansa was so pale, so white, and her chest seemed so still that Jaime feared she was dead. She _looked_ dead.  But then, she breathed shallowly again, and Jaime’s relief became palpable.

 _The Others take me, I don’t know what I would do without her_ , he thought while he stroked her face, the soft skin underneath his fingertips smooth and cool. _She’s become my lifeline, the one thing worth living for._ Before her, before Sansa, his twin sister Cersei had been the one Jaime thought had been worth living for, worth _dying_ for, but these feelings had stopped, died even, when he first learned of her many betrayals. Learned of her affairs with some of his very own men. _Men of the Kingsguard, all of them underneath my very command._

Letting out a long, deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding back, Jaime proceeded to take off his scabbard and his boots with some difficulty, clumsily unbuckling his sword belt with his left hand all the while he swore loudly in frustration. _Blasted hells! I need myself a new hand_ , he thought angrily. Leaving both his Valyrian sword Oathkeeper and his boots carefully on the flagstone floor by the side of the bed, Jaime lifted Sansa’s bed sheets and slipped under the covers, inching closer to Sansa’s sleeping form. There he curled himself against her body while his left hand softly brushed a strand of damp red hair that had stuck to her pale cheek away with light fingertips. _This was how Sansa felt when she took care of me, when she nursed me back to health with all the love she had for me._

Holding her close to him with a desperation that surprised even him, Jaime Lannister stood vigil by her side while nuzzling her neck before sleep finally claimed him.

*****

The following morning, Jaime made his way to Lord Lewys Lydden’s solar where he found the Lord of Deep Den buried deep behind a pile of letters, parchments and books.

Although he was a fierce and capable warrior who had fought bravely by Lord Tywin’s side during the Battle of the Blackwater, Lord Lewys was also very much a lover of books. Jaime knew he always carried volumes of Westerosi history, or tales from the Seven Kingdoms with him whenever he went on a campaign. _Much like Rhaegar Targaryen had loved his books in his youth before he picked up that sword,_ Jaime thought. _And before he took Lyanna Stark, Sansa’s very aunt, and Robert Baratheon started that thrice-damned bloody war—all for the love of one woman,_ Jaime thought _. Would I be ready to start a war for Sansa?_ He wondered at his own question.

Jaime had been ushered inside the solar by one of the castle’s many guards—a short, stocky man with a vacant expression upon his dark countenance. Jaime stared at him for a second before he entered Lord Lewys’ solar.

“Come in, Ser Jaime,” he heard Lord Lewys say, the voice coming from behind an impressive pile of books as if from a disembodied ghost. Jaime barely saw the top of his red head emerge from behind the mountain of documents that littered his work table made of sturdy oak.

“Lord Lewys,” Jaime started politely while he waited standing in front of the large table. Jaime did not think he’d ever seen a table as long and as large as this one, with the exception of Stannis Baratheon’s massive Painted Table over at Dragonstone.

This one raised his head and pushed at the pile of books sitting in front of him to his left. He then smiled at Jaime. _An honest, kind smile_ , this one thought. Lord Lewys Lydden must have been one of the few men in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms that he regarded to be kind, honest, even _honorable_ , almost to a fault. _Very like Eddard Stark in truth. But in the end, it was_ honor _killed Ned Stark._

“Sit, please, Ser Jaime,” the older man indicated a beautifully ornate high backed chair made of dark wood with a red velvet seat from across where he was sitting.

Jaime took the proffered seat and sat himself in front of the Lord of Deep Den. This one was a little older than him but was younger than his own Lord Father had been. He had a long, thin face that was pock marked, and a long hooked nose with a mop of shoulder-length hair that looked more orange than red. It was streaked with some white around the temples, giving him an odd look. He was as lean as a pole, but Jaime knew his long thin frame hid a man much stronger than he appeared to be. He’d once killed a man as tall and as large as Sandor Clegane by shoving a long pike underneath his jaw right through the back of his head. To be fair, the man hadn’t been wearing his helmet.

“How is the Lady Sansa?” Lord Lewys asked emphatically while he crossed long-fingered hands in front of him. Jaime felt the man’s deep blue eyes bore right through him.

He shifted uneasily in his seat. “The bleeding has stopped, thankfully. But she is much unchanged.”

Sansa had barely woken since arriving at Deep Den now four days past. Maester Kieran had told him that since she’d lost so much blood (a wonder she’d still been alive, in truth, the old master told him), she would be weak for many more days. The old kindly man had given her some milk of the poppy so she could sleep deep and rest. Lord Lewys had even sent one of his wife’s lady’s maids to keep vigil at Sansa’s side at all times except at night, when Jaime would always stay with her and sleep by her side.

The lord of Deep Den made a sympathetic sad face.

“I wish with all my heart that the Lady Sansa will soon be well. I have the utmost faith in Maester Kieran to take good care of her. He has always been most helpful to my family ever since I was a young man and he served my late father.”

“Thank you,” Jaime replied simply. Then he added “Have you decided whether or not to send some men to the Black Wolves’ holdfast?”

“I have, Ser Jaime. As we speak, thirty of some of Deep Den’s best knights and men-at-arms are preparing themselves to descend upon the outlaws’ lair. We need to rid the land of these murderous Black Wolves,” Lord Lewys said. He rose from his chair, walking to one of the window panes that overlooked an interior stone courtyard with a small fountain in the shape of a naked mermaid in its middle, clear water sprouting from her teats. “They have pestered us for too long now. I should have dealt with them sooner, I’m afraid to admit. With two of those wolves already dead, it should be easy to fall upon the remaining outlaws and to burn the holdfast to the ground, sending a clear message to their remaining number. But I fear they may have left the holdfast behind already, following your and Lady Sansa’s escape.”

Jaime nodded his approval at Lord Lewys before adding, “We must not forget, my lord, that there is apparently still another leader out there. Maester Willis is but one, I have come to understand. Cut his head off, and the beast will still run around wreaking chaos in the Westerlands since we do not know the identity of this second Black Wolf leader.”

Lord Lewys remained silent for a few moments before making his way back to his large oaken table and sitting himself in his high backed chair. He drew his fingers pensively over his thin mouth. “Yes . . . this business with the second leader is a strange one. Have you ever considered the fact that it could have possibly been an elaborate lie, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime kept quiet for some long minutes, considering what Lord Lewys had just told him. “Donal Antos also admitted to Sansa there was a second man leading the Black Wolves. Could he have been lying to her as well?”

“They are outlaws, Ser Jaime. And outlaws are a deceitful breed at best, lying all the time besides.”

“I truly hope it was all an intricate, deceitful lie, Lord Lewys. For all our sakes. But I would keep my eyes and ears opened all the same.”

*****

Jaime hurriedly returned to Sansa’s bedchamber. Standing guard outside her door was his squire, Podrick Payne.

Pod, along with half of the remaining Red Cloaks that had accompanied him and Sansa until the bridge was swallowed by the Blackwater Rush had finally made their way to Deep Den just a few days prior to Jaime and Sansa’s arrival. Pod had informed him that, sadly, Ser Martyn Marbrand had perished during a heated skirmish with another group of Black Wolves they’d fell upon on their way to the mountainside keep.

Jaime couldn’t say he was really sorry to see the man dead, even though he’d thought him to be a complete idiot. Still, he had not wished him to be killed.

He had questioned Pod about the outlaws; how many had they been? Did it look like there was someone with them that the other outlaws looked to as more than a leader? Sadly, Pod could not answer him since the battle had been so sudden and bloody, and he’d been busy fighting for his own life. He’d even killed one of the outlaws with one of the Red Cloaks’ halberds, shoving it through the front of the man’s skull.

The one thing Jaime managed to glean, however, was that they had been far more numerous than the group Jaime and Sansa had encountered, a dozen men or so, Pod told him. But in the heat of the battle, with men dying all around him and horses screaming, it could have been possible for Pod to have wrongly assessed how many outlaws there actually was.

Still, a dozen men or so . . . even possibly more since they’d managed to kill half of his own men. It was far more than Jaime had at first thought. _Maybe they are far more numerous than I believed them to be. Or perhaps, after our escape, they gathered together._ There was strength in number. Jaime hoped Lord Lewys’ very best thirty knights and men-at-arms would be able to overcome the outlaws where his men obviously couldn’t.

Jaime then looked at Podrick. “Have you eaten, Pod?”

Podrick nodded “no” to him. The kid really was a young man of very few words. He spoke so little, Jaime sometimes wondered if he wasn’t a mute like his relative, Ser Ilyn Payne, the King’s Justice.

“See yourself to the kitchen, then. I have no need of you now. I will take over and see how the Lady Sansa is doing.”

“My lord” Pod replied before he left to find the kitchens as well as the pretty little kitchen maid Jaime knew Podrick had taken notice of, while she’d also noticed him as well.

Jaime steeled himself before opening the door slowly.

The sight that welcomed him made his heart jump in his chest.

Sansa was up. In fact, she was walking slowly with the help of Lady Liona’s lady’s maid, a young woman with a round face, pretty green eyes and plump lips by the name of Arabella.

“Sansa . . . you’re awake . . . you’re up,” Jaime said, his heart tightening in his chest as a massive wave of relief washed over him.

She looked up at him and gave him a small smile. Her face was still very pale but a hint of red was now coloring her cheeks, probably from exertion.

He made his way to her and, giving a look at the maid that told her to leave them (which she did promptly), Jaime hugged Sansa to him, his right cheek resting over the top of her head, his arms around her thin waist.

Sansa hugged him back feebly, her slender harms going to his back, and Jaime felt so completely and utterly happy he almost took no notice of the sudden wetness that now permeated his chest.

“I’m so sorry Sansa,” Jaime murmured against her hair. It was a messy jumble, but he thought it had never looked more beautiful than it did now. He was just so happy she was alive, that she was now up and walking. He knew she would need time to mourn the loss that she had suffered because of him; that she would probably blame him for it and rightly so. If he hadn’t kept on insisting about the bloody moon tea . . .

He hadn’t realized, right until now, just how much he wanted to have a child with Sansa. How much more he wanted, _truly_ wanted from her, making him start to doubt his vows as a Kingsguard—as the _Lord Commander_ of the Kingsguard. _If I resign, like my father asked me to so I could become Lord of Casterly Rock, I could marry her,_ he allowed himself to think whilst still holding her close to him, like a drowning man would a passing floating piece of timber.

His thoughts also turned to his other living son. _Tommen is king now, I should be back in King’s Landing to watch over him as my duty demands, but I want to be with Sansa—the gods forgive me. He’s a kind, sweet child, more deserving of the Iron Throne than Joff ever was. He has none of his older brother’s malice and propension for cruelty, and he could actually grow up to become a good king,_ with _proper guidance. I hope Cersei will take care of him and make sure he never becomes like his older brother, and with my uncle Kevan back in King’s Landing it might happen, he will be able to curb whatever bad influence Cersei may have over him._ Because no matter how he wished it, he doubted that his twin could ever truly be good for Tommen.

Jaime was also painfully aware of the dangers and trials Tommen would be facing. He’d heard rumblings from Essos, from across the Narrow Sea, that the last Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, was getting poised to cross to Westeros with her three dragons. He’d already heard of the trail of blood and death she’d left behind her while marching on the Slave Cities that had dared oppose her. Jaime feared what she would do if she landed in the Seven Kingdoms. _I must be ready to defend my family if she does_ , he thought. Yet he tried not to dwell too much on it, the Mother of Dragons, as she liked to style herself, was still across the Narrow Sea a world away.

Jaime kissed the top of Sansa’s head and, reaching his left hand to grab her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tipped her face up to look her deep in the eyes. “Sansa . . . I really hope you can find a way to forgive me,” he said to her simply, a plea in his tone while his eyes searched the blue pools of her eyes.

He saw her pain plainly etched across her beautiful features and it broke his heart. Jaime felt like a complete and utter bastard, asking her for her forgiveness while he knew he could never forgive himself; he would always carry that guilt deep inside him.

She raised her soft left hand to his face and cupped his bearded cheek. “Jaime,” she almost whispered, “I understand why I had to take the moon tea. Please . . . do not torment yourself any further with this. I . . . I do forgive you, but only if you forgive me and you forgive yourself.”

Jaime almost crushed her to him in a tight embrace, but he felt her tremble in his arms. She was still so very weak from the blood loss, he realized, so he wrapped his left arm around her shoulders and dragged her gently to the bed where he helped Sansa climb back onto the soft feather mattress before she slipped underneath the warm blankets and furs. When she’d settled in the bed he sat by her side, and held her in his arms again. He didn’t want to let go, never wanted to let go.

“Please Jaime, I mean it. Do not torment yourself over this any further,” she told him in her sweet voice, her beautiful blue eyes now pleading silently.

Jaime looked at her deeply. _I don’t deserve her_ , he thought. _Sansa Stark is the gentlest soul I have ever met. Gentle and strong and brave. How can she be so much like Cersei in some small ways and yet be so very different at the same time?_ Jaime’s thoughts turned again towards his twin. _Maybe if she’d never married Robert, Cersei would never have become so ruthless. If she’d married Rhaegar like my father had planned things would have been so much different. Robert Baratheon_ wronged _my sister. And so did Doran Martell._

He felt himself become angry at the memory of the dead Stag King. How many times did he have to guard Robert, standing outside his bedchamber door while this one whored his way through more women than Jaime could count? How many times did this fat king humiliate his sister in the eyes of the whole of the Seven Kingdoms with his numerous bastards? His jaw clenched painfully at the remembrance. _I don’t want to think about them anymore. Sansa is the one who needs me now._

Jaime couldn’t say anything back to her. The words were stuck in his throat and he felt he couldn’t get them out. They were such a jumble of different emotions all at once. So he simply kissed her forehead and held her tight against him, tears threatening to well in his eyes.

*****

After a fortnight resting and slowly regaining her strength, Sansa was finally up and about, much to Jaime’s relief and happiness. She was so excited about being at Deep Den that she begged him to come and explore the city below the huge stone castle with her.

Jaime could not refuse her.

So one sunny but cold morning, after having a basket full of food prepared for them, he took her down to the small city below warmly huddled in their woolen cloaks while Podrick followed them silently. Jaime wondered how his peculiar squire was faring with the pretty kitchen maid. He hoped he could say more than one word to her without turning a deep red and getting all tongue-tied.

As they walked through the narrow crowded streets, Sansa could not stop marvelling at the city. Pointing here and there at something that caught her eye, a beautifully sculpted statue here, an elaborately carved stone archway there, or the intricately built small sept which looked almost like it was made of lace carved from stone. _It truly is beautiful_ , Jaime mused even if he no longer cared or believed in the gods. His faith in them had been crushed the day he learned of Cersei’s many, many betrayals through his brother Tyrion.  _Where has my little brother flown to_ , he wondered. No one had heard of him ever since his escape from his deep dark cell underneath the Red Keep after he’d murdered their father.

Jaime had asked for news from King’s Landing to Lord Lewys Lydden and this one had informed him that no one _knew_ where he, or even the Spider, was. However, he’d learned that Joffrey’s young widow, Queen Margaery, was to stand trial for treason. _How can they even prove the girl is pregnant with another man’s child? Unless the babe is born with the same dark hair as Ser Osmund Kettleblack, they could never really prove it_. Jaime also learned that Ser Osmund had been arrested on charges of treason by his uncle Kevan, now the new Hand of the King, as well as his two brothers Ser Osfryd and Ser Osney, all of them having admitted to having lain with Joffrey’s queen. _Madness_ , Jaime thought. _And Cersei must truly be mad, learning of her own lovers’ betrayals. She will have vengeance on her mind. Unless_ she _was the mastermind behind all this . . ._ Jaime wouldn’t put it past his twin sister for something as _evil_ as this. He also knew how much Cersei _hated_ Margaery, who was younger and prettier than her and the de-facto queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jaime caught himself again. _Fuck, why am I thinking of Cersei again?_ He shook his head to make the memory of his twin go away, willing it to fade in the deep dark recesses of his mind, knowing all the while that he never could forget her. She would always be a part of him, no matter what his feelings for her were now. No matter how much he hated her for all she’d done.

Forcing himself to return to the present moment, to Sansa, he looked around him.

Jaime had never found Deep Den to be that exciting or even interesting, but seeing it through Sansa’s eyes, he saw more beauty in it than he ever did before.

The stone castle was built from the mountainside itself as was part of the town below. They were surrounded on all sides by rocky mountains and green terraced fields now newly covered by a light blanket of snow where they would grow food staples and have their animals graze. And despite being far from any major water routes, it was prosperous, and Deep Den’s water supply was continually fed by underground springs that were thankfully numerous enough so the city would never lack water. Laying siege to it was also near on impossible since the main entrance was through the mountainside itself and the town below was encircled by thirty feet high and twenty feet thick stone walls.

Which explained why the city’s inhabitants had been mostly spared the evils of the War of the Five Kings.

Still, the city was grey. A drab, dull, boring grey, in Jaime’s opinion. It didn’t have the same majestic beauty of Casterly Rock. But Sansa managed to find beauty even in the grey stones surrounding them.

“Can we go inside?” Sansa asked as she pointed to the beautiful small sept.

“Of course,” Jaime replied, holding his left arm out to her. Sansa took it, depositing a light hand over his arm. He helped her climb the few steps that led to the sept’s entrance.

They walked in in silence. Inside, the seven-sided sept held a small statue for each of the seven gods that made up the Faith of the Seven. There Jaime could see the Father with its bearded face and the scales he carried representing justice; the smiling Mother who represented motherhood, fertility, nurturing and mercy; the Warrior, tall and strong with his sword who gave courage to a warrior as well as victory if he was good; the innocent and chaste Maiden; the stout Smith holding his hammer who helped craftsmen and laborers who prayed to him; the wise Crone who provided wisdom and was prayed to for guidance, her lantern helping to enlighten the man who prayed to her; and the empty space that meant to represent the Stranger who was only prayed to for death.

Drawing away from him, Sansa slowly made her way toward the statue of the Mother, and Jaime’s heart clenched painfully as she slowly knelt in front of the small stone statue.

He knew that Sansa had been raised in her Lord Father’s faith, that of the Old Gods and their Weirwood Heart Tree, but then again, Sansa’s Lady Mother’s faith had been that of the Seven.

Jaime also knew the painful reason why Sansa was now praying to the Mother.

For the child she had lost.

Jaime stood silent behind her as she prayed. Moving wordlessly to her side, he looked at her upturned heart-shaped face which had become sadder than he’d ever seen it. Her eyes were closed, her dark eyelashes casting a light shadow over her still-pale cheeks, silent tears softly rolling down her face, and he wanted nothing more than to turn back time for her, and stop her from taking that last cup of moon tea.

Clenching his jaw hard, he waited until Sansa had finished her prayer. When she did, she turned her head towards him, her long auburn hair falling softly down her back and he saw a newly steeled resolve drawn upon her face. She looked at him deeply, her clear blue eyes boring right through him.

“Help me stand now please Jaime,” she asked softly. “I don’t think I can . . .” just then a sob caught in her throat as she wiped her tears with the back of her hands.

“Sansa . . .” her name stuck in his chest in pure fucking shame. Sinking to his knees, he knelt by her side in complete need of her. Jaime had never felt like this before with anyone but Cersei, and it took him off-balance. It had him reeling. Wrapping his left arm around her slim waist, he hugged her to him before he helped her rise up slowly.

When she was standing again on her own two feet Jaime still did not let go. He was still holding on to her, holding her close to him, her soft face was pressed against his warm chest while his head rested on top of hers. Jaime kissed the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her soft, silky hair, _winter roses_ , he thought. She hugged him back before he heard her speak to him as if from a great distance.

“I am alright Jaime, please. You can let go.”

Jaime blinked once, twice, before he finally let his arms fall to his sides, before he let go of her.

Then she smoothed the creases in her simple grey woolen dress with her soft white hands while Jaime could only stare at her. “I want to go back to the castle now,” she simply said to him. Her voice calm and even.

“Of course, Sansa . . .” he said almost hesitantly as he gazed deep into her eyes, searching them while he almost wished he could read her mind.

But of course, he couldn’t. He wasn’t a greenseer after all, couldn’t actually read her mind. Jaime did not believe much in greensight besides.

Jaime was still looking at Sansa as she looked back at him with the clear blue pools of her eyes, still staring back at her and noticing the faint trace of dried tears upon her pale cheeks. Then she slowly lowered her eyes to the cold and hard grey stone floor of the sept.

“I also think it’s time we finally left for Casterly Rock,” she added.


	10. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa Stark and Jaime Lannister are now at Casterly Rock where they finally admit their love for each other. But the shadow of someone from Sansa’s past may derail everything.

**Sansa**

Sansa Stark looked down over the Sunset Sea from her bedchamber window. Outside, it was cold, wet and grey. Peering fixedly at the stormy seas raging down below, she looked at the massive waves pounding relentlessly against the red rocks.

The view was absolutely stunning.

 _Autumn storms_ , she thought. _Father said they could be fierce right before winter came_. But she’d never seen winter; the last winter that had permeated all of Westeros under a cold snow blanket for three long years had taken place years before she was even born.

Casterly Rock was a fortress literally carved out of a great stone hill—much like Deep Den had been carved out of the surrounding tall and gloomy grey mountains. A particularity Sansa noticed at the Rock was the sound of the relentless waves that could sometimes be deafening; she thought it sounded very much like thunder when the seas rushed through the underground caves that riddled it. It had taken Sansa many a day and night to get used to the sound. Now, she could barely notice it unless she paid close attention to the sound of the waves rushing through the rocks.

She and Jaime, along with Podrick and the remaining Red Cloaks, had finally arrived at Casterly Rock now a fortnight past.

Since they’d arrived (and even while they’d been on the road) Jaime had been very attentive to her and was always going out of his way to please her, having lemoncakes baked for her regularly, inviting local lords and ladies over to meet and talk with her. He even held a small ball a few days back where Sansa met so many of the Lannisters’ vassal lords that were still here in the Westerlands and not prancing around at court in King’s Landing.

Sansa had laughed, and Jaime had danced with her even though she knew he did not like to dance. It had been a wonderful and magical night, and Sansa made a friend in Joy Hill, the bastard daughter of Ser Gerion Lannister, Lord Tywin’s deceased younger brother.

Jaime had sometimes talked of this favorite uncle of his. Gerion had also been Tyrion’s favorite uncle as well, she’d learned. He was a man that had been quick to laugh and loved to make others laugh, and all his life, he had strived to step away from Lord Tywin’s larger than life shadow. Gerion had left for ancient Valyria years ago in search of Brightroar, the ancient Valyrian steel greatsword of House Lannister that was lost when the ancient King of the Rock, Tommen II, sailed back to Valyria never to return . . . much like Gerion never did return. Sansa loved to hear Jaime talk of him and often imagined the gallant Gerion sailing away to ancient Valyria, finding Brightroar and meeting a beautiful woman from Essos, falling in love with her and choosing never to return to Westeros, even though Jaime had told her he was probably dead. She knew she would have liked him.

Just as she liked his daughter.

Despite being bastard born, Joy had the looks of the Lannisters. She was almost as tall as Sansa was and was nearly the same age, with long blond wavy hair that was more golden than Jaime’s dirty blond locks. She had eyes the color of emeralds speckled with gold where Jaime’s eyes were a wonderful grey-blue like the stormy seas below the Rock. Joy was funny like her father had been, quick to laugh and lusty as well. Sansa had blushed more than once when Joy had been talking of this Lord this and this Lord that, even going as far as telling her who was a good lover and who was a bad one, who had a large manhood and who . . . didn’t.

But despite making a friend and meeting new people, she’d yet to leave the Rock and visit Lannisport.

Yet Jaime never treated her like a prisoner, more like a queen, in truth. But he hadn’t touched her since that last time in the Black Wolves’ holdfast. Before they fled. Before she lost a child. And Sansa felt a sense of despair overwhelm her at the thought because she still loved and wanted Jaime. Wanted the _Kingslayer_ back between her legs.

Ever since they had arrived at the Rock, Jaime had argued that it would be better for them to have separate bedchambers, so they wouldn’t give rise to idle castle gossip. Sansa knew it was a poor argument since most of the Red Cloaks that had come with them from King’s Landing already knew that they were lovers. Even Joy had taken notice. She’d told Sansa it was all in their body language, even if they’d tried making it appear that there was nothing between them, making her blush when she realized how many people actually knew about her and Jaime.

However, Sansa had remained quiet, keeping her bruised feelings and her counsel to herself—no matter how much it was really hurting her.

Jaime wasn’t talking either, but she had noticed how tired he looked, noticed the glances he was giving her when he thought she wasn’t looking, hungry glances that made her ache in want of him.

And she knew how he was taking out that hunger, sadness and rage that he felt. Every evening since they’d arrived, he would disappear for hours on end and, one such evening, Sansa followed him as silently as she could at a safe distance, her dark cloak pulled deep over her face so she could move through the shadows undetected.

He would go to a place deep within Casterly Rock called the Stone Garden.

It was an inner courtyard inside the castle that looked out over the raging seas. It was full of statues and fountains and stone benches, with arches going from its entrance deep within the Rock and out to the edge of the garden. There were stone alleys winding between small green gardens full of winter-blooming flowers and shrubberies with a central courtyard surrounded by a round stone archway, where Jaime would practice sword fighting with his left hand with the help of one of Casterly Rock’s men-at-arms named Andrew Marr.

Sansa stood silent witness with tears in her eyes and her heart going out to him as she saw his clumsy attempts at sword fighting, seeing his rage and frustration as he roared and tried over and over again to knock the sword out of his opponent’s hand. All the while failing miserably. But every evening, Jaime would get a little bit better, and she kept on following him, kept on watching him struggle with a deep resolve etched over his beautiful golden face. _My fault, my fault_ , _my fault,_ she couldn’t help thinking over and over again.

Jaime had even had a hand made of gold to replace the one he’d lost. He would only wear it when people came to see him in his solar or in the Rock’s ancient throne room to petition him for this and that and she knew he liked the surprising effect it had on people.

Sansa never assisted these proceedings.  She usually spent her time in her large and comfortable bedchamber doing needlepoint (if she’d still been alive, Septa Mordane would have been proud, she knew) when she was alone while she looked out the window, or sometimes with Joy while she engaged in idle castle gossip with her new friend, or reading a book she would borrow from the Rock’s extensive library. But mostly, she spent her time sleeping. Alone.

Then, one beautiful and bright morning, Sansa made a decision and she rose from bed with a new purpose in her step.

When her new lady’s maid Jeyne came into her bedchamber that morning with food and ale to break her fast, Sansa asked her to go down to the kitchens and have a bathtub brought up to her room and filled with hot water. She also asked for some scented soap.

When that was done, and after she’d eaten, she took off her nightgown, shift, and smallclothes, and sunk into the hot, soothing waters, scrubbing herself clean until her skin was pink and then washed herself and her long auburn hair with a soap that smelled like winter roses. _Jaime likes the smell of winter roses on me_ , she thought smiling to herself.

After she’d dried herself up, she decided on one of the many very pretty dresses Jaime had had made for her. She chose a sky blue silk dress, a color she knew Jaime thought beautiful on her and really liked. It was cut low and showed the swell of her breasts. She then brushed her long auburn hair when it was dry until it shone. Her maid Jeyne then helped her to weave in tresses and pin part of it over her head while the rest fell in soft curls down her back. She added small white roses here and there and looked at herself in the looking glass appreciatively and smiled at her reflection.

She then took a pretty gold necklace with a pendant made in the shape of a small bird (another gift from Jaime) and was about to put it around her neck when she stopped and looked at it closely. It suddenly made her think of Sandor Clegane, the Hound, who’d often called her “little bird.”

Sansa stood staring at it. Lately, she’d started dreaming of Joffrey’s former dog. In her dreams, he was always replacing Jaime in their bed. The Hound would be so much bigger and larger, and though he no longer frightened her as he used to, she was also shamefully aroused by him as she knew he was always naked in her dreams, even though she could never see his hard manhood clearly.

At first, that was all she dreamed of. Then, slowly, she started having more and more arousing and exciting dreams of him. She would often dream of him coming into her bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. There, she would go to him as he rose from the chair and kiss him passionately while she wrapped her arms around his powerful neck, before she drew him to her on the soft bed where he would _fuck_ her hard and fast, and she would scream her pleasure with each of his deep thrusts inside her.

Or they would take place on the Serpentine Steps, where there would be no Tyrion to interrupt them and where she would turn her back to the Hound and press herself against the cold stone wall, raising her skirts up so he could enter her from behind and make her whimper in need while he slid his hard manhood in and out of her wetly. Giving her so much pleasure Sansa would always cry out in complete bliss.

Every morning, when she would wake to find herself wet and aching from her dreams, she would always slowly run her hand over her body with light fingertips, pinching her hardened nipples before going down between her legs. There, she would rub her hard little nub until she made herself climax hard, moaning his name “Sandor . . .” while shame slowly engulfed her after she’d made herself peak, when her thoughts turned toward Jaime again.

Brushing those very unladylike thoughts that had started to make her womanhood ache dully again aside, she made her way with a decided step directly to Jaime’s solar, where she knew she would find him at this hour. Not even knocking on the oaken door, she opened it and swooped inside while she saw him sitting slumped in his high backed chair, with his right leg propped over the arm rest, his right arm resting over his knee while he looked out his window.

Jaime slowly turned his head towards her when he heard her enter. “Sansa . . .” he said, as he blinked, surprised. She’d obviously interrupted his reverie. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re taking me to see the caves below,” she said almost defiantly, raising her chin up at him and looking him deep in the eyes.

She saw the turmoil on his face and in his beautiful grey-blue eyes as she stepped closer to him. He swallowed hard while he seemed to be considering what she had just told him.

“Why would you want to see the caves?” Jaime asked. “They’re just caves, Sansa, it’s a long way down and are not that interesting besides—”

“I don’t care if you find them interesting or not, I want to see them. With you,” she added, her eyes boring right through him. Sansa would not take no for an answer.

Looking at her, he sighed loudly. “Alright,” he added, somewhat defeated. He rose from the chair before going to his work table where a pitcher and a cup were waiting for him. He poured himself a cupful of water (Sansa was relieved that it wasn’t wine) and drank deep from it, before he went to her side, the jug of water in his left hand.

He offered her his right arm, which Sansa took, laying her hand lightly over it while she stared at his stump for a short moment. He wasn’t wearing his gold hand now.

Then he took her through some long hallways before arriving at some steps carved directly from the red rock that made their slow, sinewy way down. Jaime handed her the jug of water before he took a lighted torch from the sconce in the wall to light their long way down.

It took them some time before they finally reached the bottom in complete silence, where the caves were, and Sansa’s legs were trembling beneath her in exertion. She was now dreading the climb back up—and she actually started to question her own sanity to have asked him to take her to the caves in the first place, though she knew it would be the perfect place for them to be alone.

“There we are Sansa,” Jaime said to her as he lighted the way before them. They made their slow way through some small caves before they emerged into a massive one that was partly opened to the sky. Jaime lighted another torch that was shoved into a natural sconce and put the one he had in his hand into another opening.

Sansa deposited the jug of water on a rock by the entrance and looked around.

The dim light coming from the two torches along with the natural light that spilled into this large cave made it looked almost otherworldly. As Sansa stared, eyes wide and adjusting to the dim light, with her mouth hanging open (which was truly unladylike), she took in how beautiful it was. It shone golden and Sansa thought she could see actual gold in the cave running like glittering tendrils alongside its surface.

“Oh Jaime, it’s beautiful!” She said to him while she looked around her in wonderment.

He stood silent for quite some time before he finally answered “Not as beautiful as you are,” in a hoarse and husky voice.

Sansa turned her head back toward him and looked at him deeply. It was the first time in a long time that Jaime had told her anything remotely like that, or she even heard _desire_ for her in his voice.

He was looking back at her intently, and she noticed how his gaze went from her face to the swell of her breasts before it swept over her hips, his darkened eyes caressing her hungrily. Sansa’s womanly place started to ache again at the way he was looking at her right now.

She watched him make his way to her while she stood rooted to the spot, waiting for him. When he closed the short distance between them and stood standing right before her, he brought his left hand up to her face, caressing her cheek with the back of it, his knuckles brushing lightly over her now-feverish skin, setting her entire body on fire in complete want of him.

She raised her hand and took hold of it while Jaime only stared at her, and slowly brought it to her lips while she put his index finger in her mouth and slowly started to suck on it wetly.

“Sansa . . .” Jaime groaned in pleasure.

“Jaime . . .” she answered back as she took his finger out of her mouth, her voice lower than usual.

He slowly, almost hesitantly, put his left arm around her waist, drawing her to him. Lowering his head, he captured her mouth with his lips. Sansa moaned and opened her mouth to him, letting him slide his tongue between her parted lips while his full beard tickled her. Sansa snaked her hands up, wrapping her left arm around his neck while her right hand went to the back of his head and pressed him closer to her, quickly deepening the kiss and making Jaime groan deeply into her mouth.

Then, it was as if they were suddenly consumed by passion.

Jaime feverishly tried to open her dress with his left hand, tugging at the laces at her back and managing to rip it open in the process so Sansa could wiggle out of it.

She’d decided not to wear a shift, so her chest was suddenly freed for his gaze, for his touch, and, Sansa hoped, for his mouth.

He moaned loudly at the sight of her naked breasts and hurriedly dragged and pulled at her dress and managed to make it pool around her feet. She’d also foregone to put on any smallclothes.

She saw him drink in her supple body ravenously before his mouth closed around one of her hardening nipples, making her moan loudly and sending a rush of wetness seep between her legs.

Jaime excitedly started to caress her entire body with his left hand before Sansa struggled to drag his tunic over his head, making him release her nipple with a loud popping noise, and baring his strong, muscular chest to her. She roamed her eyes over it, making her desire for him soar even higher and making her moan. Then she reached down to unlace his breeches, aware that her knuckles were brushing against his engorged member, making his hips jump against her hands while he let out a small grunt of pleasure.

Soon, Jaime stood tall and strong and as naked as his name day, just like she was. His manhood was hard and it was jutting out of the patch of course dark blond hair of his groin area. He dragged her to him and pressed himself against her, making his shaft fold between them. Sansa could feel its hardness on her stomach, pearly fluid leaking from its swollen cockhead and smearing her belly.

“Wait,” Sansa murmured breathless against his demanding mouth.

She grabbed her discarded dress and spread it over a flat rock that was as high as a table and large enough for her to lay back on and prop herself up on her arms and elbows. Then she spread her legs wide open for him. “Put your mouth on me Jaime, please,” she moaned as she jerked her hips up in complete blinding need.

Jaime gave her an anguished look before he bundled his clothes on the cold hard ground to use as a cushion and he kneeled between her legs.

Sansa wrapped her long legs over his large shoulders while he slid his left hand underneath her right buttock, grabbing at it, and he laid his right arm against her inner left thigh.

Jaime brought his face in close to her nub, and she could feel his hot breath caressing her skin. It had been so long since they had been intimate that it sent a jolt of arousal course through her body, while she felt how wet her womanhood had become.

He nuzzled her inner thigh, his tongue licking at her before he slowly made his way toward her aching nub. Then he kissed her there, his warm lips and his beard bringing her some much needed and desired for friction. Sansa moaned loudly while she ground her hips against his face.

Jaime groaned and she felt the sound hum along her nub. Then he slowly started licking at her womanhood and another moan was ripped from her lips.

Sansa felt her nub grow hard under Jaime’s warm flickering tongue. She panted and squirmed underneath him, her right hand grasping at his muscular left arm while his hand was still clutching her right arse cheek, molding it to his long calloused fingers.

She was moaning loudly with each swirl and lap of his wet tongue over her stiffening little bundle of flesh and nerves. “Put a finger in me, please, Jaime,” she moaned, still squirming hard against his face.

Jaime let go of her buttock and did as she bid him, slipping his long middle finger inside her. She was so wet both from Jaime’s saliva and her own juices that it slid easily inside her aching womanhood.

Sansa let out a small cry of pleasure at the new sensation. She could feel her . . . _cunt_ getting swollen in pleasure under the onslaught of Jaime’s tongue and finger.

He was sliding it in and out of her slowly, stroking the inside of her womanhood and making it feel good, so incredibly good. Sansa had never felt so good in her life. “Oh Jaime, it feels so good,” she moaned while one of her hands went to scrape at Jaime’s scalp, her fingers entwining into his blond mane, pulling at it in her pleasure.

Sansa was grinding her hips against Jaime’s face in complete abandon while he also moaned in pleasure. She could feel his moans hum alongside her hard nub. The feeling of his tongue over it and of his finger inside her was slowly bringing her to the edge of her sweet release. A peak she was chasing away with every buck of her hips.

“More,” she panted. “Jaime please, put another finger in me.”

Jaime almost growled in pleasure “Sansa.”

His voice was so low and hoarse it made Sansa’s arousal fling even higher. Without skipping a beat, he slowly inserted his index finger inside of her and twisted them around, curling his fingers upward. Jaime started stroking the inside of her womanhood near her entrance. The sensation was intense and Sansa started letting out loud cries of pleasure with every stroke of his fingers inside her.

She kept grinding her hips shamelessly against Jaime’s face. She was getting so much pleasure, the blissful feeling that had started inside her womanhood and was spreading to every other part of her body so great she knew she would finally come undone in his mouth.

“Don’t stop what you’re doing, oh gods, don’t stop!” she cried in ecstasy.

Jaime very well obliged her, keeping up the rhythm of his mouth, tongue and fingers over her nub and inside of her.

She heard and _felt_ him groan louder against her hard little nub, sending more wonderful shivers up her spine, feeling this blissful blinding wave slowly engulf her entire body.

Moving her hips harder against Jaime’s face, the blissful wave suddenly crashed through her, making her come so hard it felt as if it exploded from inside her swollen nub and womanhood to her entire body.

“I’m peaking! Oh gods I’m peaking!” she almost screamed, her hips rising up and down wildly against Jaime’s face as he tried keeping up with her, his fingers still stroking the inside of her womanhood and drawing out this wonderful blissful wave, making Sansa see stars behind her fluttering eyelids before everything started getting dark she was still peaking so hard . . .

Then Jaime pulled her to him as he sat roughly on the ground. Dragging her over his lap, he steadied his rock-hard manhood with his hand and made her sink on it, making her moan in renewed pleasure at the feeling of his hard member filling her up completely.

“Oh gods!” she gasped. It had been so long since she’d had him inside her. “Jaime . . .” she moaned. “Are you- are you certain? What if . . . what if I become with child?”

Jaime looked at her deeply. “Then we’ll have a child Sansa. Unless . . . unless you don’t want to . . .” He looked away at an invisible point in the distance. Sansa grabbed his chin with her thumb and her index finger and made him look at her.

“Yes, Jaime. I want to. I want _you_.”

“Sansa, oh gods, sometimes I feel I don’t deserve you. That I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.” Jaime moaned against her lips before he kissed her deeply, his mouth demanding, and he started rocking his hips underneath her, making his manhood rub back and forth deep inside her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck possessively. “Oh, Jaime,” she whispered and kissed him back as deeply as he was giving her.

In no time, Sansa’s pleasure started to overwhelm her again. Reaching behind her she propped herself on her arms, moving her hips up and down over Jaime as he kept on rocking underneath her while her breasts bounced in time with their moving hips.

Sansa was panting hard, her pleasure building up again inside her as his hard manhood rubbed a place deep inside her that felt incredibly good.

Jaime reached for her again and made her sit back upright on top of him, his lips searching for hers again, the beard still tickling her as he kissed her deeply, his tongue fucking her mouth wetly as he moaned. Sansa then started sucking wetly on his tongue, and she rocked her hips over him harder.

They held on to each other closely, Jaime hissing his pleasure as she felt how his heart was beating hard and fast in his chest while they were pressed so close together. Sansa’s pulse too had started racing in her veins, like liquid fire that was consuming her.

Their lovemaking was so desperate, so powerful she could feel her release coming upon her hard and fast.

“Sansa,” Jaime groaned almost desperately. “Please, if you . . . if you’ve changed your mind . . . tell- tell me I can’t hold on . . . I’m- I’m going to peak . . . oh GODS!”

“YES!” Sansa whimpered loud and clear. “Oh gods! YES! Please Jaime, I’m going to peak too, I want you to come inside me,” she moaned, the both of them rocking their hips harder now, the both of them chasing that sweet, wonderful release that was right around the corner.

Jaime suddenly laid his head against her chest, “Oh Gods, Oh gods, Oh gods!” he hissed as Sansa felt him peak inside her, felt his hard manhood pulse and convulse violently inside her womanhood while she too reached her release, making her moan and then sob so loudly the sound reverberated inside the large cave.

They both moaned their pleasure as they ground their hips together, their bodies being racked by the aftershocks of their pleasure.

Jaime was holding on to her almost desperately, and Sansa returned his embrace, holding on to him almost as hard as he was. She brought her hands up to caress the sides of his face, her hands stroking his bearded cheeks as he looked her deep in the eyes.

Jaime’s breathing was coming in hard and fast, and Sansa could feel how hard his heart was beating in his chest, how his pulse was racing while hers answered in kind.

She brushed her lips over Jaime’s and smiled against him when he captured her lower lip, sucking on it wetly and nibbling on it almost hungrily, sending some wonderful shivers up and down her spine.

“Sansa . . . my beautiful Sansa, I love you,” Jaime whispered against her mouth.

Sansa’s heart soared at his words, she wanted to tell him how much she loved him too, how much it meant to her that they had given themselves to each other again. She did not care if she were to carry his child, she would carry it proudly. For the first time ever, she thought about her own bastard half-brother Jon Snow in a completely different manner. To her, it no longer mattered that he was her father’s bastard. To her, the only thing that mattered now was that he was her _brother_. Even if he was only her half-brother. _If I see Jon again,_ when _I see Jon again, I will ask his forgiveness for having treated him badly. I was so stupid then. Robb always loved him, it never mattered to him that he was our father’s bastard. If I bear Jaime a child, I will love him,_ we _will love him, no matter what happens._

“Jaime,” she said, kissing him hungrily again. “I love you, too.”

*****

They stayed in that cave until evenfall, making love, laughing, kissing, and holding on to each other. Then, when the cave grew dark, they dressed (Jaime trying his best to help Sansa keep her ripped dress in place so that her breasts wouldn’t spill out, making her giggle hard in complete mirth) and made their slow way up the long-winding steps back to the castle.

They ate their evening meal in the solar, hungry for food but satiated nonetheless.

After their meal, Jaime took her hand in his and pressed it against his warm chest. “You should go rest now my lady, my love.”

Sansa smiled, her other hand reaching out to stroke the side of his face, caressing his bearded cheek again with light fingertips. “Will you come to me later?”

Jaimed smiled back at her and sighed. “I cannot. I have urgent matters to deal with, Sansa. I will most likely spend the night here.”

“Oh,” she said, slightly disappointed. “I took you away from pressing matters. I will see you on the morrow, then?” She asked hopefully.

“Yes Sansa, on the morrow.” He smiled at her and stroked the side of her face with his knuckles, brushing them over her right cheek before he pressed his hand to the back of her head and kissed her again. “Now go . . . before it is too late and I am unable to concentrate on those urgent matters that must be taken care of.”

She kissed him back before laughing and leaving him to work in his solar. Jaime had made parting with him difficult since he kept on dragging her back to him to kiss her.

Her heart soaring as high as the seven heavens, she made her way to her bedchamber before she stopped abruptly and looked behind her. She suddenly felt . . . something. Something she’d never felt before. She felt . . . someone? A presence? Come to think of it, Sansa had felt as if someone had been following her since this morning, right before she went to find Jaime in his solar.

Sansa turned around again to see if someone was indeed following her, _perhaps Jaime sent Podrick after me? Making certain I reach my bedchamber or wishing for him to take me back to his solar?_ But the long stone hallway stood empty. There was no one there. Yet she had the distinct impression that there had been someone . . .

She shook her head. _I am dreaming._ Pushing the heavy oaken door of her bedchamber, Sansa stepped inside. A fire was already roaring in the large stone fireplace, and there, on her bed, her nightgown had been laid out for her.

Her maid Jeyne had made everything ready for Sansa to prepare for sleep. Smiling to herself, she went directly to her bed and took the pretty linen nightgown, already thinking about surprising Jaime later in his solar clad only in it. _Or perhaps I could come to him naked underneath cover of my cloak_ , she thought, blushing at the audacity.

“So, the _Little Bird_ is _no_ prisoner to the bloody _Lion_ ,” a voice she thought long dead rasped behind her.

Her heart suddenly jumping in fear and . . . could it be _excitement_? In her chest, Sansa abruptly whirled towards the one place in her room where a chair sat, towards the place where the voice had come from.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. There, sitting in the cover of darkness as he had done back on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater was _him_ , the Hound, Sandor Clegane.  


	11. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is now at Casterly Rock and confronts Sansa about Jaime. How will events unfold?

**Sandor**

Sandor Clegane slowly rose from the chair where he had been sitting, waiting patiently for his little bird to return. He laid eyes properly upon Sansa Stark for the second time this night since that fateful night when he’d left her behind in King’s Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater—to his endless fucking shame.

He swept his gaze over her and noticed that she seemed taller, somehow. Her hips looked larger to him; her heart-shaped face a little leaner. But she was still as beautiful as he remembered her. Her Tully-blue eyes were still as clear as the Narrow Sea with calm waters under a bright sunny day. Her luscious lips still as plump as cherries; lips he now had the deep desire to kiss. And she truly was a woman now. A fact he was now painfully aware of.

He made his way towards her, concentrating on not showing his blasted limp, and stood tall and strong a mere few feet away from the little bird. _I need to show her I’m still the same_ man _she knew. That I’m still a fierce warrior. That I can_ protect _her. And no matter what you do, don’t get angry with her, dog._

“Why do you say that?” she asked him in her sweet voice.

Sandor’s gaze bore right through her before he answered, with bile rising at the back of his throat and with a clenched jaw, “I saw you and the Kingslayer _fuck_ ,” he almost spat the words at her, making her flinch. _Bugger me._

Sandor had followed the little bird from her bedchamber, right to Jaime’s solar, and then down the long-winding steps to the caves below the keep, where he saw everything; where he saw Jaime _fucking_ Lannister and Sansa _bloody_ Stark fuck like a pair of wild hares in heat, as his heart broke again for the second time in his life at the sight of them.

“You saw us together? You were down in the caves?” Sansa asked incredulous. “How did you get into Casterly Rock without anyone knowing or noticing you were here?”

“You forget little bird, I was a Lannister man. I was here as a boy. I came to the Rock when I was barely twelve-years of age, escaping my shit of an older brother Gregor. I stayed at the Rock for years, Sansa, sometimes even training alongside your _lover_. I know my way in and out of the Rock with my eyes closed. And I know Jaime Lannister.”

Sandor had left Clegane’s Keep right after his father had died mysteriously in a “hunting accident,” and Gregor had become the new lord and master of the keep, and everyone and everything below its roof and on its land. But he knew there was nothing mysterious about their father’s death. _Gregor killed him. Just as he killed our mother and a sister I can’t even remember. Just as he killed all those servants who disappeared mysteriously from the keep. Just as he killed his first two wives. And just as he shoved my face into that burning brazier because I played with his fucking toy_ knight _when I was only a boy of seven_ , _with my_ beloved _father explaining my burns away by claiming my bedding had caught fire_.

Sandor started simmering in complete and raw anger at the memory of the weak father who hadn’t protected him, hadn’t protected _them_ from Gregor. _His beloved eldest son. The monster who became a fucking knight._

Sandor had then entered the service of Lord Tywin Lannister while his _knighted_ brother was already out raping and killing on Lannister orders. _Gregor was so chivalrous,_ he snorted _, chivalrously raping Prince Rhaegar’s wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, before killing her and bashing her little boy’s head in, spilling his brains on the cold hard ground of the Red Keep._

Sandor had spent years honing his skills as a warrior and a killer, sometimes alongside Jaime Lannister, alongside the soddingly handsome golden Lion. Only Jaime had bothered with him on his visits back to the Rock; had bothered trying to know the sullen and angry boy behind the burned scars while the others had shied away from him and looked at him with fear and disgust in their eyes. No wonder he’d always been a loner, a killer. And that’s what Lord Tywin had wanted from the younger Clegane sibling. He wanted someone like his elder brother. But Sandor wasn’t like his brother The Mountain That Rides now, wasn’t he? Not really. He’d never wanted to become a knight like Gregor, he always thought them hypocrites, the lot of them. “Paint stripes on a toad, he does not become a tiger,” he’d once told the little bird.

And yet, yet . . . Sandor had killed his first man at the age of twelve and he hadn’t stopped killing until he ended up almost dying by the bleeding Trident, where the Elder Brother had found him and brought him to the Quiet Isle.

But before the Quiet Isle, before the little she-wolf bitch, and before the pretty little bird had come chirping into his life, annoying the crap out of him while he also became infatuated with her, Sandor had found himself in King’s Landing as Cersei Lannister’s sworn shield while Jaime had joined the Kingsguard to remain by her side, even before she married the Usurper king, Robert Baratheon. Oh, he knew about the twins’ close-guarded secret, having acted as Cersei’s shield for a few years before he became Joffrey’s Dog. Knew the little shit and Myrcella and Tommen had been Cersei and Jaime’s pups.

He took another step forward, expecting her to move backward, and was pleasantly surprised when Sansa stood her ground.

 _She’s still not afraid of me_. _She knows I won’t hurt her._ _Good._

“Why are you here?” she asked him, her face tilted upward to look him deep in the eye while he lowered his head towards her.

Sandor felt like he could drown in those clear blue eyes.

“I’m not here to hurt you little bird.”

“I know you won’t hurt me,” his little bird affirmed again. “But why are you here?” she repeated before she added in a whisper, “I thought . . . I thought you were dead.” Suddenly, he saw tears well into her eyes and she choked up. “I thought you were dead,” she said again as a loud sob escaped her throat.

“Isn’t that what you were hoping for, _girl_?” he spat at her again. Fuck, why was he so angry? He was trying not to be, had promised himself he would not be angry at her, with her, but he was. _Let’s face it dog, you’re angry at Sansa for letting the Kingslayer rut between her long slender legs, angry that Jaime Lannister has even touched her. And why would the little bird let the Lion of Lannister fuck her in the first place? What happened to her hatred for that damned family?_

“You left me . . . you left me behind!” she was almost screaming at him now. Then she took a few steps forward and suddenly she was on him, beating on his chest feebly with her small fists tightly closed as she sobbed. “You left me, you left me, you left me.”

Then she was hugging him to her. Her arms wrapped around his waist tightly as her face was pressed against his chest, her tears wetting his mail and armor.

Sandor didn’t know how to react. He hadn’t expected that from her. Not in all the seven hells. _Fuck, what’s this? Why is the little bird hugging me now?_ No one had ever hugged him in his life, not since his mother had died and even then, the memory was a hazy one.

His arms slowly went up her sides, caressing her there with his warm, calloused hands and, without knowing how it happened, she was in his arms and he was kissing her.

Instead of resisting him, resisting his kiss, Sansa opened her mouth under the onslaught of his tongue. Her luscious lips parting in a soft moan as he tentatively touched his tongue to hers, making her whimper as he started rolling it wetly against hers. She yielded to his demanding kiss, another soft strangled moan escaping her mouth as his right hand fisted her long auburn hair at the nape of her neck, tugging at it so her head would tilt back and he could deepen the kiss.

Sandor had never kissed a woman before, not really. Whores, those women he’d paid for sex, had never wanted to be kissed and he’d never even bothered with them, never bothered to actually want to kiss someone as he’d always wanted to kiss her, always wanted to kiss the little bird.

His other hand slowly went around to her back. Laying the flat of his large hand against it, he pressed her hard against him so that her lithe body would be flush with his, so he could have her melt into him and he could melt into her.

While he kissed her like this, with her body pressed against him, he felt his cock stiffen in his breeches, the huge bulge now pressing painfully against his stomach and her belly. He groaned in unexpected pleasure as another deep moan escaped Sansa’s lips when she no doubt felt his pressing erection against her.

Then, as if she were regaining some of her senses, she feebly pushed against him and tried to hold him at arms’ length, all the while they were both panting hard.

“S- Sandor, please no. You- _we_ mustn’t,” she said in that sweet voice of hers, her darkened blue eyes almost pleading with him.

Sandor was looking at her deeply and saw just how aroused she truly was. And he knew she could no doubt see the desire that was written plainly across his scarred features. Sandor could even smell the scent of sex emanating from her, permeating her body. _Maybe that’s why I’m so bloody aroused_ , he thought wildly, _even if it is because she just fucked another man. The bloody golden Lion of Lannister._

When he’d seen Jaime and Sansa fucking in the caves down below, after having followed them while being as silent as a shadow, Sandor had been both shamefully aroused and angry at the same time; both emotions disturbing him in equal measures and clashing within him.  

 _The little bird is not mine_ , he tried reminding himself. _But never in a million years would I have ever thought she could have given herself to the Lion of Lannister, the fucking Kingslayer_. Sandor was not so soddingly _blind_ , he knew Jaime was as handsome as a golden god while he was but an old, scarred, ugly dog.

He’d felt his jaw clench hard in jealousy while his cock had hardened at the sight laid out in front of him. It had taken all of Sandor’s bloody self-control not to stroke himself on the spot at the sight of Sansa Stark’s naked body, as his eyes roamed over her firm white teats bouncing in time as she fucked the Kingslayer, as he heard the sounds of her arousing pretty little moans while she took her pleasure.

It seriously disturbed him how desire and jealousy had mingled together into one powerful, almost heady feeling that took grasp of him with its deep dark tendrils and almost swept over him like a giant massive wave sweeping over a small fishing boat during a summer storm.

Turning around with bitterness and bile at the back of his throat, he’d made his painfully slow way back up the long-winding stairs towards Sansa’s bedchamber, limping badly as his leg started to hurt him like all the seven buggering blazes.

Sandor had hidden in the darkest corner of her room close to the garderobe, the hood of his dark grey woolen cloak pulled well over his head to hide his face and himself. He watched silently as Sansa’s maid walked in, completely oblivious to the pair of eyes that were staring at her and following her every move. Sandor had stood as still as a statue, his long years as a Lannister guard kicking in, and he’d almost stopped breathing as the young woman had first deposited the little bird’s nightgown on the large feather bed, before she lighted a fire in the stone fireplace, the flames roaring to life under her practiced hands, casting the room into a warm orangey glow.

When she’d finally left, Sandor breathed out slowly before he reached down and opened the laces of his breeches, reaching out for his half-hard cock. The desire and need to stroke himself had become overwhelming again, although he wasn’t sure why it was so. He had resisted the need to do so earlier, but now it was almost overpowering.

Freeing his cock, he gave his shaft a slight squeeze and pulled at it roughly a few times to make it grow fully hard. When it was stiff, Sandor started to stroke himself slowly, letting sweet pleasure gradually engulf him as he let his mind get flooded by the images of the naked little bird; her arousing moans playing in his ears like the memory of distant thunder.

He started grunting in pleasure while he pumped his cock harder and faster, before he pressed his index and middle fingers against the sensitive little knot of flesh situated on the underside of his hard engorged member, making him shudder in complete bliss while he spread the salty sticky fluid that was now leaking at the tip of his swollen cockhead with his calloused thumb.

Sandor’s eyes had closed while he leaned his back against the cold stone wall, his hand now moving up and down in heated, desperate strokes while he felt his release build inside of him. Reaching his other hand down, he tugged at his laces again, freeing his hardening balls and cupping them before he gently squeezed and a deep groan was ripped from his lips. He was feeling . . . pleasure so strongly now it was overwhelming him. Sandor had never felt this way before in his life. No matter how many times he’d fucked a woman, no matter how many times he’d fucked into his hand.

It was so consuming that he slammed into a powerful release that had him gasping for air while his cock pulsed violently, his climax almost exploding out of him while his seed was spurting hot and fast over his hands and his breathing became ragged, his heart racing wildly in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears so deafening Sandor thought he’d become deaf for a few moments.

Gathering himself, all the while his heart was still thumping madly in his chest, Sandor looked around him for something to use to clean himself with. Spotting the washbasin sitting on the beautiful ornate table with the looking glass, he noticed a pile of clean cloths neatly folded beside it.

Hurrying (it wouldn’t do for the little bird to return to her bedchamber and see him clean himself up of his seed in the wake of his climax, now would it?) he made sure every speckle of seed was cleaned off of him. When he’d finished, he threw the offending rag in the fireplace where it burst into flames and was quickly consumed. Sandor stared at it while unpleasant memories of his hated brother Gregor shoving his face into a burning brazier bubbled up to the surface, threatening to overwhelm him with pure unadulterated anger while he quickly tucked himself in and laced himself back.

Then he had sat on the chair in Sansa’s room still bathed in darkness, and waited for her to return.

And there he was, with Sansa Stark still partially in his arms while she gave him an anguished look. “Please, ser, we mustn’t . . .”

Sandor saw red and grabbed her arm roughly while she let out a loud whelp. “I’m no fucking ser, little bird,” he growled while he glowered at her hard. “Remember? I’m a Dog, I was Joffrey’s Dog!”

“Sandor, please, you’re hurting me!”

Sandor blinked hard and released her. _What the fuck are you doing, dog? You’re not here to hurt the little bird. You said you’d never hurt her, remember? You’re here to protect her, to take her home north to Winterfell, to keep Sansa Stark safe, and to become her sworn shield._

“I’m sorry little bird . . . Sansa . . .”

“And you’re no longer joffrey’s dog! Joffrey’s dead!” She almost spat back at him.

Sandor stared at her hard. “I know. I heard, on my way here.”

Sandor had heard of the little shit’s death on his way to Casterly Rock, when he and his young _squire_ , Benjen, had encountered a group of peasants making their way to Lannisport. At first, Sandor almost did not believe them. _It’s not possible_. Then he’d roared with laughter when he heard that the whole of King’s Landing thought the Halfman did Joffrey in. _They’re mad, the Imp would never have killed Joffrey_ _. . . his beloved brother Jaime’s own son, even though he_ hated _the boy_. Then the peasants told him how he’d then killed his father, the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, when he had escaped the city, magically disappearing from the Red Keep’s deep dark dungeons as if into thin air. _Now_ that _I believe,_ Sandor had thought while he’d snorted with laughter. Tyrion had hated his father, ever since this business with his wife . . . Tysha, her name had been. Sandor remembered a pretty and slender dark-haired girl. Remembered what had happened to her though he had thankfully not been present at the time.

“Why are you here?” Sansa then asked him again, her eyes peering at him intently. “You’re too late, Sandor. I don’t need you. Not anymore. I have Jaime.”

Sandor glowered at her hard again. “He’s a fucking Lion, little bird. Why do you think you’re here?”

Sansa shifted uneasily on her feet. “I’m here because Lord Tywin ordered Jaime to take me here. To take me away from Joff. To keep me safe.”

“Right. Joff is dead and so is Lord Tywin. So why are you still here, little bird?” Sandor had decided he was going to hammer some harsh truths into her whether she wanted to hear them or not.

Sansa only stared at him. Then, “I love Jaime.”

He barked out a laugh at that, but it wasn’t a mirthful one. “Yes . . . and he loves you. He loves you so fucking much little bird; you’re still a prisoner for the Lions. Tell me Sansa, do you think you could leave the Rock if you wanted to? Think you could cross the threshold and just walk out of here? Even if you’re fucking him?”

She only stared at him again while her luscious lips slowly parted as she was about to say something before she closed them in sullen silence.

She knew he was right.

Then she asked him again, this time in a deep sigh. “Why are you here, Sandor.”

He looked at her silently before answering, “I’m here to take you north little bird, take you home back to Winterfell, I promised to keep you safe. I’ll be your sworn shield.”

Before Sansa could answer him they were startled by the sudden sound of clapping.

“Nice performance Clegane. What makes you think Sansa needs or even wants you to be her sworn shield?”

Sansa and Sandor both turned towards the man standing in Sansa’s bedchamber doorway as he looked at them with a slightly annoyed look over his golden features.

 _Shit. If it’s not Jaime_ fucking _Lannister._

*****

Sandor glowered hard at Jaime who was still clapping, his left hand slapping his right arm rhythmically, the sound of skin on skin rising loudly in the room. The two of them were eyeing each other out, sizing the other man up.

Jaime stopped clapping and slowly drew his Valyrian sword with his left hand while Sandor started laughing.

“Sheathe your sword Jaime, before you fucking hurt yourself with that blade.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be . . . oh . . . dead, or something Clegane?” Jaime asked as he stood with his sword half-drawn from its scabbard.

“And aren’t you supposed to have two bloody hands?” Sandor snapped back while making his way towards the Kingslayer and getting right in his face.

Jaime stared at his missing right hand before sighing, “Yes . . . well, that’s the understatement of the century.” He shrugged. “What are you doing in Sansa’s bedchamber? I don’t think the lady wants you here.”

“Are you so sure about that?” Sandor rasped, his answer almost a growl as he slowly reached for his own sword, drawing the milky white blade slowly out of its scabbard.

Sandor was actually itching for a fight, though he knew Jaime probably wouldn’t be much of a match for him, the Kingslayer now being left-handed. _What the fuck happened to him anyways?_ Sandor thought as he looked down on the golden Lion from his great height. Sandor had a few inches on Jaime Lannister.

The two of them were still sizing and eying the other one up and down, almost forgetting Sansa in the process.

“I’m standing right here!” Sansa almost yelled at them, exasperated.

Both Sandor and Jaime broke the gaze before turning toward her.

She was angry, seething almost, her cheeks slowly turning a deep pink. Sandor had never seen her look like that before. Not even in King’s Landing. _Gods! She’s even more beautiful when she’s angry_ , he thought wildly. Almost _feeling_ her rage. _She looks like a true Stark wolf_. The thought sent another pleasurable shiver run through his entire body and it made his cock twitch. He only hoped neither Sansa nor Jaime would notice the stiff bulge he now painfully felt underneath his tunic.

“You,” she pointed at Jaime. “Am I still your prisoner?”

“Sansa . . . I,” Jaime started.

“I don’t want to hear it!” She hissed.

Sandor looked at the both of them smugly and almost barked out a laugh before Sansa turned to him, her cheeks even redder.

“And you! I don’t need a sworn shield, and you’re too late,” she hissed at him.

“Hold on little bird,” he started but Sansa interrupted him.

“Get out! The both of you!” She was screaming now, angry. Her cheeks were suffused with red, her anger clear in her voice.

Sandor glared at her again before he heard Jaime say “Come Clegane, we’re not wanted here.”

Fuck, how in the seven bloody hells did it just go so wrong right now? He was here to save the little bird, and here he was, being fucking dragged away by a sodding Lannister while Sansa had just yelled at him?

Sandor left Sansa’s room, following Jaime out in the hallway.

“Follow me,” Jaime simply told him.

So Sandor followed Jaime through long hallways until they reached the solar. Entering the room, Sandor looked around. _I haven’t been here in years_ , he thought. He looked at the large room, at the shelves lining the walls full of old books and ancient parchments, at the massive oaken table in its middle.

Jaime made his way to his large work table and beckoned for Sandor to follow him.

“Sit here, Clegane,” Jaime said. Sandor peered closely into the man’s golden face and saw a tiredness there he’d never seen before. This Jaime was so much different than the cocky golden lion he’d always been used to seeing.

“And what if I don’t want to sit? I’m no longer the Lannister’s Dog, to obey your every command.”

“It’s not a command Clegane . . .”

Sandor glared at Jaime sullenly and this one sighed.

“Fine . . . stand up if you want, I was only being polite . . . Sandor.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes to look at Jaime closely. Then he slowly sat on the chair opposite the Kingslayer, all the while he looked at him hard.

“Why are you here Clegane? Do you really mean to become Sansa’s sworn shield?”

Sandor glared at him. “Yes, I’m here to take the little bird away from here, away from _you_ , and take her north to Winterfell. She’s the rightful Queen in the bloody North and no prisoner of yours anymore, Lion, and you know it.”

“Tell me Clegane, have you really thought this through? Winterfell is a ruin and is in the hands of that crazy Bolton Bastard, Ramsay Snow. Though now he stiles himself Ramsay Bolton, and he is supposedly wed to Arya Stark. So, with you and what army do you plan on installing Sansa Stark as the rightful heir to Robb Stark?”

Sandor only stared back, not knowing what to say.

“I thought so,” Jaime then said to him. He had a smug expression over his countenance which had Sandor seething in his chair.

“So what do you propose then, Lannister? And by the way, the girl Snow-Bolton wedded is not Arya Stark. Arya Stark left Westeros for Essos.”

“And how would you know that, Clegane?”

“I know that, Lannister, because I was with the little she-wolf bitch before she left me to fucking die by the bloody Trident while she went to Saltpans to catch a ship for Essos.”

Jaime stared at him.

“So, if what you say is true, then Ramsay Bolton’s claim on Winterfell is a false one. He has no rights to it.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you Lion. The little bird is the rightful Queen in the North.”

Jaime had laid his two arms on the table in front of him, and Sandor stared at his right arm, looking at the place where his sword hand had been.

“I can’t let Sansa go. Not now. It’s too dangerous for her, but . . .”

“But what, Lannister,” Sandor rasped.

“But I want you to become her sworn shield as you offered. She will need you.”

Sandor looked at him incredulously. “You want what?”

“I believe I just asked you to become Sansa Stark’s sworn shield, as you told her you’d be.”

“The little bird doesn’t want me to be her sworn shield, or weren’t you listening to what she said just now?”

Jaime sized him up and down again, his grey-blue eyes peering at Sandor closely. “Sansa is angry at you for leaving her behind. Do you know what happened to her after you left, Clegane?”

Sandor had a pretty good idea what happened to Sansa, and he did _not_ want to dwell on it.

Jaime continued, “She was raped and beaten, Clegane. Repeatedly so. By Joffrey.”

Sandor growled, “I don’t want to fucking hear it, Lannister. The little bird made her choice when she refused to come with me that night when I told her I could take her home to Winterfell, that I could keep her safe. Don’t you think I’ve regretted not having forced her to come with me every single night since?”

Jaimed stared at him, his face a blank mask of impassiveness. Something Sandor knew all about. He knew that inside, the Lion of Lannister was seething in white blinding fury.

“And now here you are Clegane, trying to make good on that promise. And so you shall. I will speak to Sansa on the morrow and convince her to have you as her sworn shield while I will write to Sansa’s remaining family, and see if anyone will join her in her claim on Winterfell as the rightful Queen in the North.”

Sandor stared at Jaime before he grunted in approval and let himself relax.

“And until then? Does the little bird still have to stay here?”

“Yes Clegane, she does. For her own protection.”

“Fuck her protection, you want to keep her here to yourself so you can keep on fucking her.” Sandor spat those last words at the Kingslayer.

“So . . . you already know about us.” Jaime’s jaw clenched hard. “I love her Clegane, I really do.”

“What about Cersei? Does she know you’re ‘in love’ with Sansa Stark? That you’re whispering sweet nothings into her ear? That you’re fucking her?”

“My sister knows nothing of this Clegane and I would be most grateful if it remained that way.” Then Jaime narrowed his eyes at him, making him shift uneasily in his seat.

“You love her . . .” Was what came out of the Lion of Lannister’s mouth. “Fuck, Clegane . . .”

“Fuck what, Jaime?” Sandor stood up in a rage. “Think you’re the only one who has the rights to have feelings for the Stark girl? But I’m not blind nor am I stupid. I know the little bird could never love me. I’m just an old, ugly scarred dog to her,” he spat at Jaime Lannister with bitterness in his tone.

The golden haired man sighed deeply. “You’re not an old ugly scarred dog, Clegane. For fuck’s sake, you’re almost the same age I am. As for scarred or ugly . . .”

Then Jaime smiled his golden smile at him. The smile that could win any woman’s heart and Sandor bristled at the man’s brazen behavior. His fists started to clench over his thighs.

“Oh relax now Clegane, you’re always too . . . tense. You need a good fuck. I have some very pretty kitchen wenches that could help you, let’s just say, relieve some of that pent-up tension.”

“I don’t want any bloody wench, Lannister.”

“No, no you don’t,” Jaime answered carefully while his gaze bore right through him. “You want Sansa.”

Sandor kept silent, his gaze full of contempt for Jaime.

This one sighed loudly. “Come now, there’s no need to fight over Sansa. You will become her sworn shield, just as you wish and I . . .”

“I _what_ , Jaime?” Sandor wasn’t sure if he was going to like what the Lion of Lannister was going to say to him right now.

“I . . . I will marry her.”


	12. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime resumes his sword-training with the Hound and notices some changes in Sansa.

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister was feeling as if every single muscle in his entire body was being literally set on fire with pain and none more so than the muscles in his left arm.

He was hurting so much he was actually reeling.

He had decided to start training with the Hound, Sandor Clegane, instead of one of the Rock’s men-at-arms. Jaime was determined to become as accomplished a fighter with his left hand as he had been when he still had his right one.

Before he left King’s Landing with Sansa, Jaime had told Ser Loras Tyrell how he had learned to be the knight he had become. “I learned from the White Bull and Barristan the Bold. I learned from Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who could have slain all five of you with his left hand while he was taking a piss with his right.”

That was before he’d lost his right hand. His _sword_ hand. Now Jaime had every intentions of becoming as skilled as Ser Arthur Dayne had been with his left hand, minus the taking a piss with his right one of course . . . Jaime sighed deeply.

Clegane was a fierce and formidable opponent and he kept parrying the cuts and counter cuts that Jaime was trying to inflict upon his massive adversary with an ease that riled Jaime.

Not only was he racked with pain but inside, Jaime was also seething.

In a moment of sheer frustration, and in pure blinding rage, he flung the practice sword they had been using to the cold stone floor of the Stone Garden, roaring his exasperation loudly. He started pacing the length of the practice area over and over again while brushing his fingers into his damp hair. His pulse was racing in exertion, his breath coming in short gasps.

“Pick it up, you fucking Lion,” Sandor shouted at his back. “Pick up your sodding sword and fight me! If ever you want a chance in all the seven hells to save your miserable lion’s hide in any battle, then you need to learn how to fucking fight again. I thought you had more fire in your belly than that. Pick up the bloody sword Jaime, or I’ll shove it up your arse!”

Jaime turned around and stared at the tall and large scarred man standing unmoving in front of him with a murderous glare and shouted back “Ever the motivational speaker I see, Clegane. We’ve been at it for hours. I need food and rest.” Then he gathered himself and slowly breathed out “It’s late and I am tired. Fighting with my left hand is . . . difficult.”

“Aye,” Sandor rasped, “But you’re not only learning to fight again for your own miserable life, you’re also doing it for Sansa. What happens if you’re not ready and she needs you?” Sandor closed the short distance between them and pointed at him before he pocked at the breastplate covering his chest, making Jaime even angrier.

“Leave Sansa out of this or I swear Clegane . . .”

“Or what, Jaime? You swear what?” Sandor smirked at him, looking smug.

Jaime roared and threw a hard punch at the Hound’s chest with his left fist. He knew it was feeble; he could as well not have punched Clegane at all, plus he hurt himself in the process. _You’re a bloody idiot_ , he thought about himself. Jaime was more than grateful that Sansa wasn’t there to witness this pathetic show of strength; he did not want to look weak in the eyes of the woman he loved. Nor did he want her to pity him or feel guilty again about what had happened. There was enough guilt between the two to last them a lifetime, he thought, and Jaime truly wanted to turn the page on what had happened to them both.

Clegane only laughed at him while Jaime bristled with rage. Then he threw himself to the ground, rolling in the dirt, and picked up his sword, entering a battle stance again with the Hound.

This one nodded at him. “Good,” he said as he pointed the sword back at Jaime.

He then sprang to his feet and drove at Sandor while this one jumped back, laughing at him in that raspy laugh of his. Jaime was seething as he rained down steel on the former Lannister dog and this one kept on parrying his cuts. High, low, left, right, overhand, and backlash, all his blows felt desperate to Jaime. All his blows parried. _And the man has a fucking limp. He tries to hide it but it’s there_. . .

No sooner was he springing into action that Clegane kept on answering in kind, and Jaime found himself being driven back. The little bit of ground he had managed to gain for a moment evaporated as the massive man advanced on him.

Their swords kissed and sang, the song of steel upon steel. Jaime loved to hear that song and it sung to him, making him feel more alive than he had been in such a long time. Even when he found himself between Sansa’s long legs, his seed spilling deep inside her. Clegane was not letting him win, was not throwing dust in his eyes. For the first time since his hand was cut off, he knew he could do this, knew he could be as good with his left hand as he had been with his right.

Jaime pressed the attack, going faster and faster and faster, slashing, cutting, parrying. Stepping and sliding with each blow until Clegane grunted and without even knowing how, his sword was no longer in his hand, but flung onto the ground again.

He was not about to back down, so he rolled again in the dirt, not waiting for Clegane to hit him again in the ribs with the practice sword.

*****

Jaime had finally made it to his bedchamber after another day spent practicing in the Stone Garden. His entire body was killing him and he was exhausted. He barely could take his armor and clothes off, even with the help of his squire Podrick who had stood by him silently in the Stone Garden alongside Clegane’s own squire, a lanky boy named Benjen, while in the end Jaime was humiliated and beaten over and over again.

He was hurting everywhere, even in places on his body he did not know he had.

When he had finally stripped down to his sweat-soaked shift and smallcothes, he made his way slowly to the looking glass, dismissing Podrick at once. This one nodded in a stiff bow and left.

He slowly and carefully raised his shift to take a good look in the mirror at the side that was killing him. What he saw made him swear softly under his breath. His ribs were all shades of black and blue where Clegane had hit him mercilessly with the flat of his practice sword.

“You’ve got your guard down again, Lannister,” he’d yelled at him, after he’d struck him.

Jaime hissed at the sight, and the pain was short of excruciating. He quickly ran light fingertips over his bruised side, gently prodding here and there to see if any ribs had been broken but thankfully, that wasn’t the case. _Looks like I’ll live to fight another day_ , he told himself.

He also made a mental note to tell Clegane to take it easy the next time. Or to kill him.

Then he stared at his face for an instant. His dirty blond hair was disheveled, his beard shot through with some grey. He sighed deeply. _You’re not a young man anymore_. And yet Cersei . . . Cersei, his twin, looked at least 10 years younger than he did.

Jaime then took the pitcher of water and filled himself a cupful which he gulped down in a few swallows. He was debating whether or not to visit Sansa in her bedchamber this night, but since Clegane had become her sworn shield, he was now sleeping in the bedchamber adjoining hers, where he could no doubt hear them during their rather loud bouts of lovemaking.

Knowing that Clegane too was in love with Sansa, and not wanting to bruise the man’s feelings even more, he hadn’t gone to see her in her bedchamber, though she had come to him more than once so that they could take their pleasure together.

He had sent a raven to his uncle Kevan in King’s Landing now nearly a fortnight ago, informing him that he wished to resign not only as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but from the Kingsguard entirely as well, and that he wanted to re-take ownership of Casterly Rock. But he had yet to hear back from the new Hand of the King.

 _They will most likely refuse my resignation. Especially Cersei; I can very well imagine the rage she must have flown into at the letter_. But Jaime did not care. He had only sent the letter as a formality. He _was_ resigning from the Kingsguard and he _was_ going to marry Sansa Stark. Though he had purposefully left that last part out of his letter, unless he wanted to see his twin sister Cersei descend on Casterly Rock in pure blinding fury.

Not only was Jaime determined to be marrying for love, but he also saw his and Sansa’s union as a beneficial political match besides, one that would stop the fighting between Lannister men and Stark men and unite them against common enemies; The Greyjoys, the Boltons, Stannis Baratheon, Daenerys Targaryen and even the White Walkers north of the Wall.

 _I could help Sansa regain the north with a strong army of Lannister men and Westerlanders still loyal to my House, and install her as the legitimate Queen in the North, exactly as Clegane planned to do_ . . . _or we could simply stay here and love each other until we are old and grey and have many children and grand-children to fill this castle with._

Jaime ran his hand through his hair and sat by the window of his bedchamber overlooking the raging seas below. The sky was grey and the wind was up, howling through the castle as if it were something alive and screaming. He wondered if the ghosts of the Lannister men buried deep within the Hall of Heroes sometimes walked these red walls and hallways, and joined their voices to that of the howling wind.

 _It is a grey, wet, and gloomy day,_ he thought, sighing _._ Then his mind turned to more pleasurable thoughts. _I wonder if Sansa will come to my bedchamber tonight._ Jaime hoped that she would. He would often find himself missing her every single moment of the day when she wasn’t near him—except when his mind was taken while sword-practicing with Clegane.

But as of late, Jaime had taken notice that Sansa had started acting strange. She was often daydreaming, was often deep in thoughts. And though they would always make love passionately, Jaime often felt the act came out of a certain desperation arising from the need for the both of them to be fully together. Then she would sometimes remain quiet afterwards; her head nestled warmly against his chest, while she played with his chest hair with her smooth fingertips. They were often holding on to each other in silence, and he felt as if Sansa was holding on to him as if for dear life. _This is something I will need to discuss with her. She has been truly sullen as of late._

Jaime had not pushed her, figuring she was probably thinking again about the unborn child they had lost. He knew Sansa had been only at the very early stages of her pregnancy when she lost the baby, but he would often think on it himself. He wondered if she could be with child now, and did not want to tell him yet. He had not dared ask her about her moon’s blood, and she wasn’t speaking about it either. _Not that one’s moon’s blood is a topic women particularly like to broach with men_. Even Cersei had never discussed this with him either and he and his twin had been closer than he even was with Sansa now. But whatever happened, Jaime was ready. He was prepared to have a child with Sansa Stark since his wish was to marry her and make any child he had with her legitimate. He hadn’t said anything to her just yet, keeping it secret but for Sandor, preferring to wait for an official confirmation from his uncle Kevan about his resignation before asking her to marry him. _Hopefully, she’ll say yes . . ._

“Podrick!” he called loudly. In just a few seconds his faithful squire, who had been waiting outside the massive oaken door, stepped into his room. Jaimed eyed him up and down. “Fetch me some food and some Arbor gold wine from the kitchens. Also, have a bath brought up. Oh, and then see if the Lady Sansa is in, and let her know that I wish to speak with her.”

Podrick nodded at him and the young squire went about the tasks Jaime had given him. He winced as he shifted in his chair, his side hurting like all the seven blasted hells. _Fucking Clegane, I’m definitely going to have to tell him to take it easier_. But he knew the former Hound wouldn’t listen to him and that he would push Jaime to fight harder and harder and then harder each day. Pushing him to his very limits.

His days had always been the same since he had started training with the former Lannister dog now almost a fortnight past. First he would train with the dummy in the mornings after breaking his fast with Sansa and Clegane, and then he would fight with Sandor after they had taken their midday meals, before evenfall.

While the Hound wasn’t the most talkative person in the whole of Westeros, Jaime had learned from Clegane that he had spent months living as a novice on the Quiet Isle, after being saved from certain death by a holy man named the Elder Brother. Telling him how he had dug graves for the bodies that washed up by the Isle’s banks. Jaime had laughed heartily at that, joking about him wearing brother’s brown-and-dun robes. He had a hard time imagining Clegane as _anything_ but a holy brother now, and Jaime had laughed so hard tears had run down his face while the former Hound had stood simmering and glowering at him, making Jaime laugh even harder at _that_.

When he’d gotten a semblance of self-control over his bout of mirthful laughter, he had looked Clegane deep in the eyes. “You will have to tell Sansa about her wolfish sister Arya, Clegane. She has a right to know she may still be alive in Essos.”

Clegane had looked sullenly at him before he rasped, “Don’t you think I know that Lion?” He sighed loudly. “Might be I just don’t know how to tell her proper, is all.”

Jaime stared at him then. _He’s a grown man! Towering over everyone at six-foot-six and he’s one of the most fearsome warriors I’ve ever met, and yet he’s scared to tell Sansa news of her little sister._ He shook his head almost in disbelief, but Jaime knew Clegane wasn’t the only one keeping secrets from Sansa.

“Whatever you do Clegane, do it soon. The more you wait, the less Sansa will be in a forgiving mood for keeping this information to yourself . . . and letting it known me.”

Sandor had nodded glumly and Jaime hoped the former Hound would let Sansa know about her sister Arya soon, for both their sakes. “It wouldn’t do for Sansa’s very sworn shield to start guarding her by keeping important secrets from her.”

“Go fuck yourself, Lion!” Sandor Clegane had roared then. “I already told you that I was going to tell her!”

Jaime had raised his one hand in defeat. “Alright Clegane, I believe you. But as I said. Do it soon.”

Sandor had then muttered under his breath “Fucking Lion.”

 _Fucking Lion indeed,_ Jaime thought sullenly.

*****

Sansa was ushered into his bedchamber after he had taken a meal comprised of a meat pie and cheese, as well as fresh greens, and he had a nice, hot, soothing bath. She seemed to be in a good mood and smiled brilliantly at him.

“Oh Jaime,” she murmured against his neck after she’d stepped into his embrace, hugging him back to her. He had slipped back into a clean shift and breeches after his bath.

Jaime held her close to him and inhaled the sweet scent of her. _She always smells like winter roses, it smells so wonderful on her. I remember how her aunt Lyanna was crowned Queen of Beauty with a crown of winter roses by Rhaegar_ , he thought wonderingly.

Jaime had been young at the time, but he remembered how Lyanna Stark had been an incredibly beautiful and vibrant young woman with long dark hair, fair skin, and deep grey eyes. _No wonder Rhaegar fell for her, his own wife Elia was always so sickly,_ he recalled. _Sansa has none of the Stark coloring and all of the Tully look of her mother and looks nothing like her father, but she is as beautiful as her aunt in so many different ways_.

He smiled against her hair and said. “What have you been up to? Did you and Joy decide on finally going to Lannisport?”

“Yes . . . we will be going on the morrow,” she told him. “I am looking forward to visiting the shops for silks and wool for some new dresses, and to see what the city looks like.”

“Clegane will accompany you.”

Sansa sighed deeply and remained silent for some moments. Jaime looked at her, slightly puzzled at her reaction. She always seemed to get this way every time they would talk of Joffrey’s former dog. _Is there something Sansa is not telling me about Clegane? Do I have reason to doubt her feelings for me? What are you thinking Jaime . . . Sansa is no Cersei._

“Yes. He will come. He is my sworn shield after all.” She raised herself on tip toe and tilted her head back to kiss him fully on the mouth.

Jaime moaned softly and parted his lips to let her kiss him fully, her tongue sliding wetly against his own, sending a shiver up his spine and making lust tingle through his body.

Then she smiled against his mouth and whispered “Take me now, Jaime.”

He groaned deeply at her words and turned her around so that her back would now be pressing against his chest. He grunted slightly in pain but decided to ignore his aching, bruised side, while he started showering her long supple neck with open-mouthed kisses after he had tossed her long auburn locks aside with his fingers, exposing the soft skin at the back of her neck, and making her mewl in pleasure.

“Oh Jaime,” she whimpered as his left hand went up her front to grab her firm, perfect breasts by sliding it under her bodice and mold them to his one hand, going from the right to the left in turn, eliciting another moan from her lips.

“Take me now, like this,” she moaned in need against his ear.

 _Oh fuck_ , Jaime thought. He pushed her gently against the wall and struggled to raise her skirts over her waist, helped by Sansa who bunched them in her hands and exposed her naked buttocks to his roving eyes.

Jaime groaned deeply when he saw how her pink cunt was already wet and swollen and ready for him to enter her. Sansa was wiggling her luscious arse left and right while she looked back at him, her blue eyes darkened in pleasure, her perfect white teeth biting at her lower lip, her long auburn air falling softly down her back and over the curve of her perfect bottom.

He stared for one moment before he started nibbling and suckling at the soft white flesh at the back of her neck. Then he quickly undid the laces of his breeches and released his aching cock. It was already half-hard and, taking it in hand, Jaime rubbed it between Sansa’s arse cheeks, which elicited another whimper of pleasure from her.

“It feels good,” she said in a moan while she jerked her hips backward into him, grinding her wonderful arse against his hardening cock.

“Yes,” Jaime acquiesced, adding “ _You_ feel good Sansa.” Then he bit gently on the crook of her neck, making her tilt her head back against him in another moan. He saw that her mouth was opened in a little O of pleasure.

Jaime felt a wonderful shiver go up and down his spine in complete bliss, his need for her overwhelming his senses. He could feel the loud thumping of his heart in his chest, and the steady rush of blood in his ears.

He kept on rubbing the tip of his leaking cock between her buttocks, before steadying it at her wet entrance. _The Others take me, Sansa’s already so wet for me_. Pushing into her with a deep moan, and making her hiss loudly in pleasure, he then braced himself with his left hand pressed against the wall and started rolling his hips upwards and forward into her while she rose herself on tip toes and bent over slightly so he could enter her more deeply.

Jaime grunted as his cock slid wetly in and out of her, his pleasure at the intense feeling he felt deep inside her already building up in his hard member and in his clenching balls.

He was panting hard with every deep thrust of his hips into her while Sansa moaned loudly in complete bliss.

He started suckling on her neck again, hissing and licking at her pulse point. Her head was still tilted back against him, her long auburn hair falling in mad curls at her back and spilling over his tunic and his chest.

“Oh! Jaime, more! I want more,” she moaned loudly.

“Bend over Sansa,” he said hoarsely, “and push against the wall.”

Jaime shifted so Sansa could bend and push against the wall, just as he had told her to do, and he grabbed her hips with his left hand while he rested his right arm by her side.

He slid his cock almost completely out of Sansa who whimpered at the sensation before he pushed back into her in one long slide, making her moan loudly again. Jaime’s pleasure soared at the arousing sight of her bent over like this for him.

Then he started pounding into her hard and fast, his hips snapping inside her with a violence born of the deep need he had for her, this overwhelming need he had to pleasure her and to make her come hard around him.

Sansa was letting out small cries with every thrust into her while he was grunting and moaning in ecstasy. She felt so good like this around his cock, he didn’t want to stop.

“More, more, more,” she was pleading with him, her head turned towards him again, her hair now falling limply by the side of her face while their bodies were covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

“How . . . how much more,” Jaime managed to pant behind her, the feeling of bliss almost overpowering now, his need for release urgent.

“I . . . I want you to fuck me even harder!” She whimpered loudly in pleasure.

“Fuck Sansa, I- I can’t . . . I won’t last.”

And just as he said this, Jaime’s climax hit him as a roar spilled from his lips, his cock pulsing hard and his seed spilling wildly inside of her while she moaned both in pleasure and perhaps even disappointment.

His heart was beating so hard in his chest he suddenly felt dizzy before his cock finished pulsating inside her and it slowly slid out of Sansa’s wet cunt along with his thick white seed.

She turned around and pressed her back against the wall, her skirts still bunched up over her hips, the red thatch of hair over her mound exposed, her eyes half-closed in her pleasure and her chest heaving hard. Jaime leaned in to kiss her deeply while he reached his left hand between her legs and started rubbing his calloused fingers over her swollen nub.

“Your turn now, Sansa,” Jaime groaned against her ear.

Her hips jerked violently against his hand while her breathing hitched and became ragged. She was moaning loudly witch each of his rub against her hardened little nub and her hands went to the back of his head, scratching at his scalp wildly while his tongue was now fucking her mouth wetly. Feeling her legs tremble, he quickly slid his index and middle finger inside her sticky wet entrance and started rubbing her there.

“I’m almost there,” she whimpered against his mouth, her hips moving jerkily. “Rub me! Rub me harder!”

Jaime slid his fingers out of her wetly and went back to rubbing her hard little nub.

“Oh Gods!” She gasped, “I’m- I’m there.” Then her body went completely rigid as Jaime was rubbing her almost desperately, wanting her to come against his fingers. She let out a loud wail and fucked herself against his hand, her hips now rolling against his fingers, her breathing uneven and shallow. “Yes, oh, yes!”

He held on to her as her body shook with the aftershocks of her pleasure, as he felt her riding this wonderful wave of bliss he knew she was experiencing from the loud moans that were escaping her lips.

After a few moments she stilled, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, while she buried her face in his hair.

“Jaime,” she murmured against him.

He started showering warm open-mouthed kisses against her hair, her face, her neck.

“Yes . . .  my lady,” he drawled almost smugly.

She started laughing while her hand reached down between them to grab his half-hard cock that was still jutting out of his opened breeches, making him groan deeply.

“Sansa, please, I’m all sticky and . . .” he stopped as she started to stroke him.

“And what?” she asked innocently, while she increased the pressure of her hand over his quickly stiffening cock.

“I . . . I should clean myself up before . . .”

“Before what, Ser Jaime?” She asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes, her lips pursed upwards into a tiny smile.

But Jaime couldn’t finish what he had started. His cock was so over-sensitized that each of her strokes were a delicious, wonderful, exciting torture and he couldn’t speak any more. The need to fuck into her hand was too great so he closed his eyes against this incredible feeling, his hips moving in time with her strokes.

In no time, he was close to his release once more and, his head hanging low and his forehead resting over her left shoulder he came, his seed pulsing wildly into Sansa’s hand while he let out a loud grunt of pleasure.

Sansa stopped moving her hand as soon as Jaime came and planted a kiss on his lips and on his bearded cheek, escaping his embrace while laughing giddily.

She went to the washbasin and started to clean herself. Jaime looked at her, his heart swelling in his chest in complete love for her.

Turning around and smiling brightly at him, she then made her way back to where he was still standing, his back against the wall, his chest rising up and down fast as he breathed hard. She had a clean cloth in her hands.

Jaime was about to take it from her when she said, “Let me, my love.”

Kneeling in front of him, she gently and lovingly cleaned his cock, his balls and the course hair there. When she had finished, Sansa lifted her clear blue eyes toward him and gave him a bright smile, showing him her white teeth before she kissed his cock and laughed again.

 _Gods! How much do I love her!_ He suddenly thought, and it was true. He’d come to love Sansa Stark more than he could have thought possible. Fuck him, but he never thought in his entire life that it could happen, that it could be possible for him to love anyone as deeply as he’d once loved Cersei and the swell in his chest now took him always by surprise.

Reaching his hand down to caress her cheek and entwine his fingers in her hair he smiled back. Making her rise, he took her in his arms, holding her close to him as if _she_ were his only lifeline.

*****

When Sansa had left him to return to her bedchamber, Jaime had started taking off his clothes to get some much needed rest. Now that his mind was taken off fucking Sansa, it went back to the massive bruise on his ribs and he hissed in sudden pain. _Bloody fucking Clegane_ , he thought again.

A light knock at his door stopped him dead in his tracks as he was about to climb into the soft featherbed, exhausted.

With a loud sigh, he made his way slowly to the massive oaken door, while he slightly winced again in pain. He was surprised to find his squire Podrick at his door.

“Couldn’t it have waited until the morrow?” Jaime asked, actually annoyed with him.

“No my lord. Maester Aurane said I was to give you this now. It just arrived by raven.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Jaime mumbled unhappily under his breath.

He reached and snatched the piece of parchment from Podrick’s hand almost roughly and immediately felt bad for having reacted a bit too harshly with his eager squire.

“I am sorry Pod, I am rather overly tired. See yourself to bed now, we will talk on the morrow.”

Jaime closed his door and went to sit on the chair by his table. Opening the parchment carefully, he then read the message silently, going over what was written over and over in stunned stupefaction.

It was not from his uncle Kevan, as he had expected, but from his twin sister, Cersei. She was telling him that she was refusing his resignation as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and was demanding his immediate return to King’s Landing. Begging him, even. Telling him she loved him and saying she wanted him to return to her. That she needed him back in her arms again.

 _How can Cersei have been so stupid as to have actually sent this out? So that anyone who could possibly get their hands on this piece of parchment could use it against our family? Against our children?_ Jaime was simmering in rage at the sheer stupidity of his twin. _Uncle Kevan must have been completely unaware that she has written and sent this message._

His jaw clenching hard, he made his way to the massive fireplace in his room and threw the parchment in the fire, watching it burn darkly while it vanished into nothingness in the flames.


	13. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's long-awaited outing in Lannisport doesn't go according to plan while her feelings for Sandor get muddled.

**Sansa**

Sansa felt like walking on air.

Today was the day when she was finally going to visit Lannisport with her new friend Joy, and she was actually looking forward to _finally_ leaving the Rock for an entire day. It felt like a dream to her, but it reinforced her in her growing confidence that Jaime was no longer considering her a prisoner to the Lannisters and that she was actually free to do as she pleased.

Jaime had even encouraged her to go but had mentioned more work again; meaning he wouldn’t be able to join them in their outing. “You’ll be with Joy besides, and the both of you will be able to do ladies’ stuff. You don’t need me, I’d only be in your way,” he had said as he brushed his calloused thumb over her right cheekbone.

Sansa was a slightly disappointed but kept the feeling to herself.

“Clegane will go with you Sansa, he is your sworn shield after all. You will be safe with him,” he had told her before he smiled his golden smile at her and brushed his lips over hers. Then he kissed her deep, making her moan against his mouth and her womanly place start to throb pleasurably again.

She smiled at the memory but still would have wished for Jaime to come with them. However, she _was_ excited about spending the day with Joy and learn more about Gerion Lannister’s fascinating bastard daughter, _even_ if the Hound would be there to follow their every move.

Sansa reflected upon the fact that he always seemed to be _there_ for her back in King’s Landing . . . especially in moments when she had not expected to see him. _He was always there to save me. Just like when he saved me from the would-be rapists the day of the bread riots when Myrcella sailed for Dorne._ She shuddered in horror at the remembrance of that frightful day and hugged herself.

She recalled how he had told her, on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, that he could take her home to Winterfell, that he could keep her safe. He had been waiting for her in her bedchamber covered in the sweat and blood and gore of the brutal battle still raging outside the city walls. Was that why she had not gone with him as he fled the capital? Sansa had tried to forget this terrible night, but she could not. The memory was seared into her mind. The way he looked at her when she told him “You won’t hurt me.” The simple realization and truth of it finally dawning on her.

“No little bird, I won’t hurt you,” he had said to her and she had heard the bitterness in his voice, had seen the pain and disappointment in his eyes. Then he had turned around and left her bedchamber. Sansa recalled again how she had stared at his broad back and large shoulders desperately as the hand that clutched her father’s doll fell limply to her side. _Willing_ him to turn back, to return to her, but he had not. _He left me, he left me behind,_ she thought again.

The memory almost made her sob. _I should have left with him_. Then she would have been freed of Joffrey. _And I would have been with_ him. But she would never have been with Jaime . . .

Sansa blinked back tears threatening to well in her eyes. She raised her head high. _I have found Jaime. I love him. Sandor Clegane is nought to me_. Yet she knew, as she thought this, that it was all a lie. As the months flew by, she would think on the Hound more and often until sometimes she felt she could only think of him. Think on how he had kissed her before leaving while she could remember the brutal yet exciting press of his lips over hers. Sansa thought how his kiss had been so different from that night when he had kissed her in her bedchamber here at the Rock. His mouth had been softer, less cruel. The thrill she had felt when his tongue had touched hers had made her lady parts start to ache dully. Heat had pooled in her belly.

Gathering herself, she willed those thoughts of Joffrey’s former Dog aside and turned them to Lannisport.

It was difficult for Sansa to believe that her brother Robb had almost conquered the city when he and his army had descended on the Westerlands. But since her brother’s death, the lands and castles and holdfasts and keeps surrounding one of the biggest cities in Westeros had slowly reverted back to Lannister rule. _Brother, mother, I miss you,_ Sansa thought with tears in her eyes as she hugged herself once more. She also missed Bran and Rickon and even Arya. They were all gone now: dead or vanished from the face of the Earth. All but for Jon who was so far away on the Wall. The new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, she had heard.

She screwed her eyes shut and slowly breathed in and out, willing the sad and painful memories away. Today was going to be a happy day, she had decided.

Sansa had chosen to wear a simple pink woolen dress to go with her grey woolen cloak lined with soft white sable fur since it was cold outside—even though the sun was shining its golden rays upon them with the light looking like a warm lover’s kiss. She had her hair up in the simple northern style, the way she knew Jaime liked. _Sandor also likes my hair this way_ , she mused and shook her head again at the thought. It disturbed her to think of the Hound so often when her whole heart was with Jaime, was it not?

She was still waiting for Joy to join her in her bedchamber and she was nervously smoothing invisible creases in her woolen dress while pacing the length of her room when her maid Jeyne returned. Sansa had sent her to inquire if her new friend was ready to leave for the city.

From the long look on Jeyne’s face, Sansa knew that her only friend would not be coming. “What did she say?” Sansa asked.

“She was ill m’lady. I saw her with mine own eyes, bent over a bucket and heavin’ all she had in her belly.” Her maid’s eyes were downcast.

Sansa sighed in disappointment. “Thank you Jeyne.”

As her maid left her bedchamber Sansa gazed at her own reflection in the looking glass. She raised her chin up and a decided look crossed her features. _It doesn’t matter; you can still go by yourself. Sandor will come with you and he’ll be there to watch over you if anything happens. He’s your sworn shield after all._ _But nothing will happen, you’re just going to Lannisport to see the city and go to the markets. Everything will be perfect._

Then why was she feeling so nervous? And why did she have butterflies fluttering madly in her tummy?

*****

After visiting the town’s magnificent sept (she thought it only had its equal in king’s Landing) they made their way to Lannisport’s numerous gold shops. Sansa cooed admiringly over countless beautiful pieces, some of them as intricate and delicate as Myrish lace or even a dragonfly’s wings.

Jaime had given her a small purse filled with silver dragons so she could purchase anything she wanted, and Sansa had bought an exquisite new gold necklace with a wolf pendant. _The sigil of House Stark, my House_. It reminded her of Lady, and she became sad again when she thought on her dead direwolf. _She’s dead like my father, my mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon . . . and even perhaps Arya_.

She was taken out of her sad reverie when Sandor suddenly argued laughingly that the pendant looked more like a dog than a wolf, making her glare icily at him.

They were now strolling around the bustling marketplace, with Sandor walking slightly behind her and following her every step, casting a long shadow over her tall frame. His large hand was resting lightly over the pommel of his sword while he was glaring hard at anyone looking at them askance from deep within his cloak, with only the whites of his eyes showing.

As a major port city, and one of the biggest towns in the Seven Kingdoms, Lannisport had ships hailing from all over Westeros and Essos and the Summer Isles. Every merchant and ship’s captain was competing with each other to sell their precious goods to the passing crowd, carefully displaying them on small tables and shouting loudly to everyone to come and see their exotic wares.

Sansa’s senses were overwhelmed by everything she was seeing, by everything she was touching, by everything she was smelling. She was looking all around her with wonderment in her eyes. There were exotic spices from Essos like cloves and saffron; beautiful cloths of silks and linens and velvets and satins and samites and wools and other wondrous fabrics Sansa had never laid eyes upon before coming from all over the Seven Kingdoms and across the Narrow Sea. There were also wondrous colored feathers from the Summer Isles, where ebony-skinned men and women would cry out for their beautiful merchandises.

Sansa stared and gaped without wanting to at the Summer Islanders, even though she knew it was unladylike to do so, and she flushed in embarrassment when she caught herself gawking. She had only seen one such dark-skinned man before in all her life, and it was back at court in King’s Landing where the exiled prince Jalabhar Xho, Prince of the Red Flower Vale, had strutted around at court back in King’s Landing. First under King Robert Baratheon and then with Joff.

“His tongue was up in every king’s arses, little bird, wetting and plying everyone’s arse holes with sweet words,” Sandor had told her. She was always taken aback by how vulgar but truthful Sandor could often be.

The exiled Summer Islander had always paraded at court with a cape of green and scarlet feathers over his black skin. Sansa had learned through Jaime that he too had been arrested on charges of treason for having apparently lain with Queen Margaery, to her complete astonishment and disbelief.

Walking lazily in the cold sunlit day, and huddled warmly inside her cloak, Sansa looked to the left where stalls and stalls of jars filled with wine from all over the known world were waiting to be bought and sold. There were precious gold wines from the Arbor, Strongwines from Dorne and Westeros, sweet reds from the Reach, sour reds from Dorne (the ones she knew Sandor loved so much), pale wines from Pentos, green nectars and firewine from Myr, dreamwine from Qarth, sweet Volantene wine, even Shade of the Evening that was drunk by warlocks and could turn your lips and mouth blue, she had all learned from Sandor, as they made their way through the stalls.

Then she turned left again, where merchants were displaying the magnificent cloths she had seen earlier.

Sansa was looking to buy some beautiful fabrics so she could have a few more dresses made. She was admiring some beautifully colored silks from Pentos, her favorite fabric in the whole world, looking at one as red as blood, and another that looked like a pure azure sky to replace the dress that was ripped and ruined when Jaime and her had made love in the caves. She felt herself turn crimson at the remembrance and hoped neither the merchant nor the Hound would notice the sudden blush in her cheeks.

She chanced a sideways glance at Sandor, thinking the Hound was probably bored to tears even though his face was an impassive blank mask; one she knew he had honed for years. She watched him as his gaze roamed left and right over the crowd when a thin, bedraggled man rudely accosted and bumped into her. She let out a surprised shout as she almost fell, the ground quickly moving up to meet her.

She swiftly felt Sandor’s strong, powerful arms around her lean waist, steadying her, making her heart beat faster in her chest all the while the butterflies in her tummy returned.

“Careful you fucking rat,” she heard him say angrily to the man who had accosted her, growling. “Are you alright little bird?”

Sansa’s heart was thumping madly in her chest, her pulse racing in her veins for some reason she knew had nothing to do with that man, but everything to do with the fact that Sandor Clegane was holding on to her tightly. _Holding me in his strong arms . . ._

“Yes . . .” she murmured. Then, her hand going to the place where her purse had been hanging from her belt just moments before, she found nothing. “He . . . he took my purse! The coins Jaime gave me!” Sansa said in a panic.

“Fuck,” Sandor swore loudly. “Wait here.”

Sandor left her and started walking rapidly after the man who was pretending nothing was amiss as he made his way slowly through the crowd, trying to snatch more purses from unsuspecting lords and ladies. Sansa noticed a slight limp in the Hound’s gait as he hurried after the thief, making her heart clench painfully at the sight. _What happened to him?_ She wondered sadly.Despite his limp, Sandor had caught up to him and was dragging the thief back by the scruff of his neck while the bedraggled man was trying to escape Sandor’s strong grip, struggling hard. Sansa knew it was no use.

Her breathing had now become erratic and she pressed her hand against her chest, trying to still the wild beating of her heart.

“Let go of me,” the man shouted loudly, making the people in the surrounding crowd stop and stare at the scene unfolding before their eyes.

“This lady here is Ser Jaime Lannister’s . . . guest. You will give back the lady her purse and apologize or I will open you from cock to throat and spill your guts in the fucking muck without a second thought,” Sandor rasped in the thief’s cowering face.

The man actually recoiled at that and, slipping his thin, bony hand inside his dirty shirt, he pulled out the small purse Sansa had hanging from the belt around her hips just moments before.

With a trembling hand, she took the purse back. “Thank you, ser,” she started.

Sandor growled. “Don’t thank the fucking rat, little bird. He’s a fucking thief and should have his buggering hands cut off.”

She hitched in her breath. “Please, Sandor, don’t!” She was suddenly afraid that he would actually cut the man’s hands, or worse, kill him.

The man struggled harder against Sandor and almost shrieked in fear. “Please don’t ser! I won’t do it no more, promise. I ain’t so bad a man, I were just hungry is all. My children were hungry.”

“I’m no fucking ser,” Sandor rasped angrily while getting in the man’s face, his nose almost touching the man’s dirty eagle beak. “And you hurt the lady, that won’t fucking do. Apologize I said, you dirty bugger. _Apologize_.”

Sansa looked at the man with eyes opened wide in fright. He was looking back at her in kind, and then shrunk back. “I’m sorry, m’lady. I won’t steal again. I promise on my children’s sweet heads.”

Sandor snorted at that.

She looked at Sandor who was still scowling at the struggling man. “He gave me back my purse and apologized. Please, let him go . . .”

Sandor looked at her hard. “Are you sure little bird? Might be he’d be better off in the Rock’s dungeons and have the Lion deal with him. Might be you’d like that, thief?”

“Oh, please, no, Sandor,” she said. “It’s- it’s alright please let him go.”

Sandor glowered at her before he groaned in frustration and reluctantly let go of the dirty grubby thief. “That’s a bad idea little bird—”

As soon as he’d done so, Sansa saw the glint of steel flash in the man’s hands before the thief lashed out and cut at Sandor’s thigh as he fell to his knees. 

He let out a loud grunt of pain and staggered as he tried to grab the thief again with his large, powerful hand, but this one slipped away as quick as a snake into the milling crowd.

“Sandor!” Sansa shouted both in fear for him and sudden pain. Looking over with worry at her sworn shield, she saw blood trickling from his thigh and soaking his breeches where the thief had cut him.

*****

Sansa opened the heavy oaken door to Sandor’s bedchamber without even knocking first, wanting to talk to her sworn shield about what had happened in the markets earlier. She wanted to apologize and see if he was alright and skidded to a halt in surprise, and stood rooted to the spot, at the unexpected scene playing in front of her.

Sandor wasn’t dressed. In fact, he was very, very naked and was slightly bent over, looking at an ugly puckered scar on his left thigh. He was also changing a linen dressing where the thief’s knife had cut through flesh, but thankfully not bone, and his hair was falling limply over his burns.

She also noticed the new burn on his left arm which looked nicely healed and was far less gruesome than the reddish mass of burnt scars covering the right side of his face. _This wound was well taken care of,_ she thought, staring.

She must have made a strange noise then, maybe even let out a strangled moan when she saw him as naked as his name day because while he hadn’t exactly reacted to her entering his room unbidden, his head now shot up and he stared at her with a deep scowl over his features. “Have you never heard of knocking, little bird?”

“I- I . . .” she stuttered, embarrassed. She felt herself become flustered, felt the heat creeping up her chest and neck.

Then, with an intensity in his gaze that made her womanhood start to ache dully, he slowly stood upright and Sansa could only stare back. And look.

With a boldness that even surprised her, Sansa’s eyes started roaming over every single inch of Sandor Clegane’s silvery scar-covered body.

She slowly took in his large and powerful shoulders, her eyes going over his thick muscular arms before sliding her gaze over to his large hands. She imagined them as they first cupped then covered each of her breasts, molding them to his long fingers. The sudden and unbidden thought sent a wonderful shiver up her spine. Sandor had long, muscular legs, and she noticed that the hair there was a shade lighter than the dark hair on his chest; as was the fine hair covering his arms. 

Her gaze flickered back to the dark hair that trailed from his beard and neck, and then over to his large and powerful chest; the play of hard muscles underneath his skin clearly defined by the light cast from the tallow candles and the roaring fire in the large stone fireplace. She followed the dark hair as it made its way down in a dark trail that drew her eyes over the muscles of his hard stomach and further down to his groin.

She then stared brazenly at his manhood and Sansa licked her lips at the sight before her, right before she started nibbling at her lower lip nervously. His member was large and long and it was slowly hardening as she kept staring.

“Might be you like what you see, little bird?” Came Sandor’s husky voice. It was low and hoarse and she noticed that his breathing had become slightly ragged, and that his member was still elongating; that it was getting harder and stiffer. It was now jutting out straight towards her, with the tip of his manhood slightly curving upwards, a drop of moisture leaking at its tip. Sansa thought she very much wanted to taste him on her lips . . .

She suddenly blushed at her own audacity and at having leered so openly at him. _The way he leered at me before he took me to the queen when my father was arrested for treason, the way he leered at me that night on the Serpentine Steps, the way he leers at me in my dreams and then takes me and makes me come . ._. Sansa felt heat coil in her belly and a rush of wetness seep between her legs, dampening her smallclothes. The fabric was now clinging uncomfortably to her lady parts. She bit her lower lip hard and tasted blood. _I love Jaime, then why am I thinking of Sandor this way?_ She looked away from him, ashamed of herself, ashamed of even desiring someone other than the man she proclaimed to love.

“Pardons my lo- Sandor,” she started, stammering. “I should have let you have the thief arrested . . . I- I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sandor snorted before he looked at her, a seriousness creeping into his rasping voice. “You shouldn’t be _sorry_ little bird.”

“It was my fault you got hurt . . . I should never have asked you to release that . . . thief. We should have had him taken by one of the City Watch.”

Sandor only shrugged. “Don’t worry about that little bird. Next time I see his rat face, I kill him.”

Sansa shifted uneasily on her feet. _Why should I be surprised? Sandor is a man used to violence, he killed the men who tried to rape me during the bread riots as easily as if he were cutting through cake. He saved me all the same and he didn’t have to._

“I saw you limp, Sandor, and I can see the scar on your thigh,” she murmured. Then, more strongly, “What happened to you?”

She saw him look uncomfortably back at her, scowling, as was his habit. “I don’t want to talk about this now, so forget you ever saw that Sansa. I can still protect you.”

She stared at him and was about to say something but the way he fixedly looked at her made her think twice about saying anything more on that particular subject again. Still, Sansa knew she would not let this go so easily, and she promised herself to ask him again when he would be in a better mood, which, knowing him, could be never. She sighed loudly.

Looking around his sparse bedchamber, she saw there was only a large bed, a table where a jug of wine and a single goblet sat, one chair, a trunk for his clothes, a garderobe, and no looking glass. _Is he afraid to look upon his own face and his scars? He shouldn’t. He has a beautiful face, despite the ugly burns_ , she thought. Still looking around, she noticed his sword had been laid on his bed. She pointed at it.

“What kind of sword is this? I have never seen its like before,” she said as she made her way towards the sword and Sandor’s bed. She blushed again as she stared at the place she knew where Sandor slept, the place where she knew he liked to stroke himself to release thinking of her. _I’ve dreamed of this_ , she thought. _I have_ seen _it_. The thought both disturbed and aroused her equally.

She slowly trailed light fingertips over the snarling black dog’s head and felt how cool it was underneath her warm skin. _Onyx_ , she thought. She brushed her thumb in slow circles over its smooth head before staring at the milky white blade. Sansa looked, hypnotized, at how it seemed to glow. She tentatively touched the cold steel and it felt . . . warm, somehow. _Strange_ , she thought.

“Can you feel it Sansa?”

She blinked at Sandor’s words and could feel that he was now standing behind her. His voice was still hoarse, deep, husky, and it made her throb again. _No, I mustn’t think of him this way. He is my sworn shield, he was Joffrey’s dog, he left me behind, I love Jaime._

She turned around, trying to look into his eyes all the while she wanted to stare at his manhood again. But as her gaze quickly swept down, she noticed he was now wearing breeches though she could still make out the stiff bulge at his front. She could also feel her pulse hammering between her legs in want of him. She cleared her throat in an attempt to stop thinking of the Hound, _Sandor_ , and to stop thinking of _it_ ; vivid images of Sandor between her legs, groaning in pleasure as he entered her playing in her head and threatening to overwhelm her. She almost swayed in sudden dizziness.

He reached his hands down to her, putting one large hand on her waist to steady her—sending a jolt of pure arousal coursing through her entire body, making her skin tingle in lust—while the other covered her hand still lying over his sword. _His hands are so warm . . . I wonder how they would feel on my breasts . . . No. Why are you still thinking about this, about him?_ She couldn’t stop herself, she felt deeply connected to Sandor somehow, had even felt pain when he was cut, and it was driving her mad. _I’m mad_. She shook her head and felt proud when she managed to ask “Feel what?”

“The warmth of the blade, little bird. How it’s warm and hard and sharp.”

Sansa swallowed hard before turning her eyes again on the sword. “Yes, warm and hard . . .” she almost whispered.

“The Elder Brother told me it was like to have been made from metal forged from the heart of a fallen star, like Ser Arthur Dayne’s sword, Dawn.”

Sansa could hear the appreciation in Sandor’s voice. “Have you named it?”

Sandor stared at her and chuckled. “Name the sword little bird? No.”

She murmured “You should.” Then, more strongly, “My father’s Valyrian greatsword was Ice, Jaime’s Oathkeeper, and your sword . . .”

“Yes? My sword should be named what? Maiden’s teats?” Sandor barked out a laugh at his own joke.

It made her bristle. “No. But you should give it a name nonetheless.” Sansa recalled how Joffrey had named his new blade Hearteater and had made her kiss it on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater and shuddered in disgust at the remembrance of it.

“Why not call it Trueheart?”

“Sansa, it has a snarling dog’s head sculpted into the pommel. I’m not sure Trueheart would be a fitting name for it.”

“You once told me that a hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he’ll look you straight in the face. That’s a true heart to me,” she said shrugging.

Sandor had stayed silent at that and Sansa could almost hear him thinking behind her as his thumb slowly started caressing her hand almost absent-mindedly in soothing circles. She was staring at his big calloused thumb and started having some very unladylike thoughts, which in turn made her blush as she tried rubbing her legs together to alleviate the dull ache that had returned to her lady parts.

Sandor seemed to notice what she was doing and suddenly let go of her hand, clearing his throat while he turned his back to her.

She looked at him desperately while he uttered with something that sounded like bitterness in his tone “You should leave me now little bird, or Jaime will hear that you’ve been here and wonder what you were doing in my bedchamber. You don’t want your _lover_ to know you were here now, do you? And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“I can go wherever I like,” she answered back with hurt in her voice. “I don’t need to answer back to Jaime. I am not his prisoner. Not anymore.”

“Don’t lie to yourself, little bird, and being alone in your sworn shield’s bedchamber while he was naked is not part of the deal with the Lion of Lannister.”

Sansa’s jaw clenched hard. _How dare he say that? I am not Jaime’s prisoner anymore. He loves me and I am a free woman. And . . . and I am a wolf, a Stark of Winterfell._

Without another glance at Sandor Clegane, Sansa stepped out of his bedchamber while she felt him stare at her back.

*****

Sansa returned to her own room completely breathless. As soon as she was inside, and her door was closed and barred, she leaned back against the oaken door and pressed the palm of her right hand over her pounding heart. Her encounter with Sandor just now had awakened something deep in her that excited and troubled her.

She loved Jaime. That was the one thing she was certain of, the one thing that was real. _Isn’t it?_ And she knew he loved her. They had admitted as much to each other when they had made love in the caves.

But Sandor’s words were ringing in her ears.

Was she really still a prisoner to the Lannisters?

 _No, I am not._ Jaime had let her go to Lannisport, as she had so wanted to do ever since they had arrived at Casterly Rock. He had even insisted on it.

And it was Jaime who had also insisted that she take on the Hound as her sworn shield while he knew very well that Sandor Clegane wanted to take her north with him. She had to admit to herself that even though she had refused him as her sworn shield at first, she now knew she wanted Sandor _close_ to her.

Jaime had told her he had written to her uncle Edmure in Riverrun, as well as to her great-uncle the Blackfish, and that he had also written to her aunt Lysa in the Vale. Both Sansa and Jaime knew they wouldn’t hear anything back from this strange aunt of hers who had recently wed Lord Petyr Baelish, King’s Landing former Master of Coin, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Vale.

 _He has risen so high so fast_ , Sansa thought. _Too fast_. There had always been something she did not like about Littlefinger. For one, she hated how he had often looked at her as if he were seeing her mother the Lady Catelyn Tully, the woman he had loved; and she hated how his breath always smelled so sweetly of mint. It made her shudder.

As for her other kin, Sansa knew she had met her uncle Edmure and her great-uncle Ser Brynden Tully as a child while she had visited Riverrun with her mother and father so very long ago. But she had no real memory of them. Did they have any real memory of her? Would they respond to Jaime’s plea and help her take the north back as Robb Stark’s heir and the rightful Queen in the North?

Jaime had told her that the one most likely to respond would be her great-uncle the Blackfish. Jaime knew Edmure, and he was certain he would be too scared and cowardly to take up her cause—even though her uncle was back as the Lord of Riverrun thanks to Jaime who saved him from the Frey’s grasp after her bother Robb, his direwolf Grey Wind, and their mother were murdered at the Twins during the Red Wedding.

But the Blackfish . . . the Blackfish—Ser Brynden Tully—her mother’s uncle was a man of strength and honor, despite his age.

Sansa sat on the edge of her soft feather bed. Her breathing was still shallow and she was trying to calm herself.

Her pulse had started racing in Sandor’s room, her heart had started thumping wildly in her chest, and the sound was deafening in her ears.

Sansa had not expected the arousing reaction she had when she saw Sandor as naked as his name day. She had not expected to get so . . . _excited_ from her encounter with him.

And the sight of his hardening manhood as she stared so openly at it had made her womanhood ache dully in complete lust for him.

_I love Jaime, I love Jaime, I love Jaime. Then why am I feeling this way when I am close to Sandor? Why do I keep having all these arousing dreams of him? And why does my heart ache for him?_

Sansa had started dreaming more and more about the Hound ever since he had arrived at the Rock. Not only were the dreams still taking place in her bedchamber in the Red Keep and on the Serpentine Steps, they were now also taking place here at the Rock.

First, Sandor had replaced Jaime down below in the Caves. She was dreaming that the former Hound was the one taking her _, fucking_ her, his very large and hard manhood sliding in and out of her wetly as she moaned loudly in complete bliss, while she raised her hips up and down over him, her breasts bouncing wildly.

She was also dreaming of him in her bedchamber here, where he would come to her in the cover of darkness after she would demand he attend her in her room. There she would order him to undress and he would obey. Taking off his armor and then his clothes, where he would stand tall and naked for her to openly stare at. Then she would sink down to her knees in front of him, take hold of his large manhood and suck on it hungrily. Making her lady parts wet with desire for him.

Then he would grab and hold her up while she wrapped her legs around his strong waist, her arms going around his powerful neck, her hands tangling in his hair. He would let her body slide against him and make her sink on his engorged member while he would press her back against the cold stone wall, pinning her there while he would fuck her hard and fast, making her cry out in pleasure.

What disturbed her the most, however, was that in her dreams she had seen the ugly puckered scar on his leg, and she had seen the new burn on his arm. And when she had seen him naked just now, she had realized that those scars were indeed real and were _there_ on Sandor Clegane’s hard body, rattling her to her core. How could she have seen that in her dreams of him if they were only that, dreams?

Sansa was confused and she couldn’t even talk about this to anyone, least of all to Jaime.

Jaime, whom she truly loved.

But what was Sandor to her? _He is my sworn shield. That is what he is to you. Your sworn shield and only that._

Feeling upset, she decided to head to bed and sleep. It was dark already and she was bone tired besides. _Tomorrow, tomorrow I will think on it._

She fished out her nightgown from the large chest at the foot of her bed and slowly undressed. She struggled slightly to unlace her bodice, but Sansa had become used to having no maid on the road. So she managed to let the dress slide from her shoulders and pool around her feet on the floor.

Stepping out of it, she then took off her shift and smallclothes before slipping on her silken nightgown, loving the feeling of the light, smooth fabric over her skin. She had bathed in the morning and still smelled the winter roses on her skin. Heading to the wash basin, she took a clean cloth and dipped it in the cool water before washing her lady parts thoroughly.

When she had finished, she managed to crawl into bed. Dragging the blankets and soft furs over her body, she promptly fell asleep.

*****

Sansa was dreaming again. But this time it felt different. And this time, she had made her way to Sandor’s bedchamber.

He had not locked his door, as was his habit.

It was bathed in an eerie light, the moon shining brightly inside his room. In the fireplace, the last dying embers cast a pale orangey glow while some still-lighted tallow candles casted dancing shadows over the stone walls.

Sandor was sleeping on his stomach, his arms folded underneath his pillows. He was sleeping with the left side of his face pressed against them, and Sansa could see his scars, see the reddish burns. His brown hair was spilled around his head and his face looked truly peaceful.

Sansa thought she had never seen him like this. She had never seen him looking so at peace as he did now.

She stood there staring at him, willing him to wake and to look at her. _He will look at me, we are linked somehow are we not? And this is only a dream. I can do whatever I like._

Slowly, he raised himself up on his strong, muscular arms and turned his head towards her and looked at her intently, the white of his eyes showing in the semi-darkness. At first, he looked shocked to see her, then, there was a hunger in his gaze that made her womanhood throb dully between her legs as he growled “Sansa . . . little bird . . . what the fuck are you doing here?”

Excitement and lust rose within her like an all-encompassing tidal wave, and she knew she was going to have him this night.


	14. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor. Sansa. Much smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend [Caroh99](http://archiveofourown.org/works/458613/chapters/789944) without whose inspiration and support, Sandor would never have made his way to the little bird. Thanks to her, I feel the story has been enriched by the Hound’s presence. :-D <3<3<3
> 
> Again: Not Beta'd, English is my second language, I try my best but apologies for any grammar and/or spelling mistakes. Feel free to let me know if you notice anything, it would be most appreciated.
> 
> Comments are love and help feed my fickle muse. Please also feel free to review :-)

**Sandor**

Sandor was awakened from his deep slumber when he felt someone’s presence in his bedchamber. Barely opening his eyes, he curled his hand around the hilt of the dagger he always kept hidden underneath his pillows, ready to kill the little fuck that had walked into his room. _I need to start locking that fucking door._

He knew it wasn’t Benjen, knew (or rather hoped) his young squire was not stupid enough to walk into his room in the dead of night. _The boy knows I’d slit his throat before he could even say one bloody word._

He was lying on his stomach and stood still, pretending sleep as the intruder made his way slowly towards him. Sandor could hear the light rustling of fabric. _Sansa_ , came a sudden thought. _It’s the little bird . . . How do I even know that?_

Propping himself up on his forearms, he turned his head and saw that she was indeed standing but a few feet from the foot of the bed. The moon was full this night and an eerie light spilled from the large window in his bedchamber, enabling him to see her face clear enough.

The little bird was staring at him intently, a look of unmistakable arousal over her beautiful heart-shaped face, her luscious pink lips slightly parted, her beautiful auburn hair falling in mad tumbles like a fiery halo around her perfect features.

It sent his pulse racing at the sight.

Her chest was heaving up and down in excitement and Sandor could see the outline of her hardened nipples underneath her near see-through nightgown, could even make out the thatch of red hair covering her mound, making his cock twitch. Sandor became painfully aware he was completely naked again underneath the coverlets and furs piled over his bed.

He let go of his blade.

“Sansa . . . little bird . . . what the fuck are you doing here?” He asked her, growling and glowering at her. Fuck, he could have _killed_ her. What in the seven bleeding hells was she thinking of, what was she playing at?

Sansa didn’t answer him, instead, she almost growled.

Sandor was staring at her hard, his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed as he searched her face, his gaze boring right through her. _Wait. What is Sansa bloody Stark doing in your room. She’s the Lion’s little pet and not yours. Not yours . . ._

“Sansa,” he asked again, his voice a snarl.

“Sandor,” she finally said, breathing shallowly as she kept on staring at him, a look of complete lust reflected plainly over her features. It almost seemed to him as if her eyes were burning hungrily right through him.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Kingslayer’s _bed_ right now little bird? Singing all your pretty little songs for him?” He asked again dangerously, his voice a low rumble in his throat.

“No,” she breathed. “It is _you_ I want, Sandor.”

 _Fuck me_ , Sandor thought, staring at her almost incredulously.

“Sansa, what in the seven hells are you _saying_?” he asked her carefully. He turned and sat on the bed, facing her, his stare hard. Sandor couldn’t quite believe what she had just told him. _She told me she was in love with Jaime . . . what buggering hell is this? Why is she truly here? She can’t possibly be here for you now dog, can she?_

She had made her way slowly toward him and was now standing next to the bed, her long fingers caressing the pile of furs bunched in the corner. Sandor stared at her carefully, warily. Her eyes looked almost glazed over. _Is she even awake?_

“Little bird. Fuck. You told me you were in love with _Jaime_. What are you doing in my sodding room?” He suddenly got angry at her recklessness before he felt a wave of sudden arousal crash through him, like liquid fire that was setting him on fire. His heart started hammering in his chest wildly, his pulse still racing.

“I told you,” his little bird said. “I want _you_.”

She climbed onto his soft feather bed and made her way toward him on all fours. Sandor found himself rooted to the spot. He knew he should push her away from him, yet he felt unable to do so. _Shit_ , _I’m like a fucking stag that has been caught unawares by bloody hunters . . . or a pack of wolves. Or in my case, a flaming she-wolf of a goddess. Fuck me into all the seven bleeding heavens._

She was now so very close to him he could see her face clearly, her blue eyes were burning bright in pure lust, her lips were drawn back and she was showing him her perfect white teeth in a silent snarl.

 _Fuck . . . if she truly wants_ me _, then who am I to refuse_ her _?_ Still, Sandor wasn’t quite sure what to do. He had never been on the receiving end of someone else’s desire before. Not the least Sansa Stark’s, the girl, _woman_ , he loved with his very soul.

It had hurt him so fucking much to see her with the bloody Lion, to know they were still fucking even if they had tried being discreet about it around him, while Sandor pretended not to know, not to see. That was why he was so bloody confused right now about the reasons why she was truly here with him. _If she’s still fucking and loves Jaime, then what does she need me for?_

Sansa stopped by his feet and looked at him deeply before she closed the short distance left between them. She tossed his bed sheets aside, exposing his nakedness and his hardening cock to her roving eyes while she moaned softly as she took him in, drinking in the sight of his strong body like she’d done earlier when she had come into his room, exciting him more than he had thought possible and making him grow hard under her intent gaze.

She raised the hem of her nightgown and straddled him while she laid her hands against his shoulders and braced herself over him.

Sandor’s breath caught high in his throat and he groaned in both pleasure and anguish when she pressed her warm, wet cunt over his quickly stiffening member. _The Others take me, she’s not wearing any smallclothes and she’s soaking wet already._

Sandor’s breathing had become shallow; his head was lowered slightly while his eyes were raised to hers intently. “Sansa,” he warned again. “Fuck, what are you _doing_? Don’t play with me little bird. Don’t. I’m not some fucking toy knight to play with.” His heart was beating so hard and fast against his rib cage he thought everyone at the bloody Rock could probably hear it.

When she didn’t say anything he added in a sneer “Do you know what dogs do to wolves?”

Sansa looked at him keenly, Tully-blue eyes dazed in complete lust . . . _for me_. He felt himself drown in them.

“They fuck them,” she answered while she showed him her white teeth.

His eyebrows shot up and he stared in amazement at her, both shocked and surprised at how brazen she was. _Seven bleeding hells . . . she really wants_ me _to fuck_ her _._

She smiled at him brightly before she closed in on him, her luscious pink lips pressing softly against his, making him almost jump out of his skin. Sandor couldn’t help the loud moan that escaped him as his mouth opened and his tongue clashed with hers. His right hand went to the nape of her neck where he fisted and pulled at her long auburn locks, making her whimper in need. They kissed deeply for what seemed to Sandor an eternity. One he did not want to see end. He found he liked kissing Sansa Stark; liked it very much indeed and it had his heart racing.

Sansa moaned loudly against him and pressed her hand over his chest while they kissed and started nipping at each other. Her soft, fluttering fingers were so warm against his feverish skin as she traced soothing circles over his hard chest, he felt as if she were trailing a fiery path over his madly thumping heart.

“You’re so warm,” she told him, her voice barely above a whisper against his demanding, eager mouth.

He then reached his hands to the sides of her body, caressing her there with his large calloused hands before he slipped them underneath her nightgown and tentatively brushed his thumbs over Sansa’s stiff nipples, making her moan softly against his mouth while she pressed her chest into his hands.

The gesture sent a spark of arousal run through Sandor’s entire body.

He was already painfully hard underneath her wet nub, and Sansa had started rocking her hips over him, the slickness between her legs flinging his arousal even higher. She rolled her hips back and forth over him, sliding her wet nub over his entire length and moaning in pleasure as she did so.

It was driving him mad. The only thing he could think about was to hold her hips so he could steady her over him, and to sheathe himself fully into her sweet cunt. He had never felt like this before, had never felt as wanted and desired as he was feeling now.

He was used to slightly unwilling whores and not to little birds; was used to give coin for pleasure instead of receiving and giving it freely.

Sandor wanted Sansa to make the decision to have him deep inside her. So he let her do with him as she very bloody well pleased.

She squirmed over him and hurriedly took off her nightgown, dragging it over her head and throwing it to the floor as she panted hard in excitement while he could only stare at her. She was so beautiful completely naked before him; so perfect, better than all his wild, arousing dreams of her, even after having seen her naked before down in the caves. Her wonderful white teats heaving up and down in time with her ragged breathing, her flat stomach and the swell of her womanly hips, her long legs that were straddling him, her luscious lips that looked swollen and red and were parted in ecstasy, the long dark lashes that were fanned over her rosy cheeks as her eyes were closed in pleasure.

Sansa grabbed his hands and pressed them against her breasts again, making him groan deeply.

She had now wrapped her arms around his neck and was back to kissing him hungrily, her tongue rolling wetly against his. He slid his right hand behind her neck and held her in a tight embrace, allowing him to deepen the kiss, making the both of them moan loudly in pleasure as she kept on rocking her hips over him while he combed his left hand through her hair.

Then he fisted her long auburn locks at the back of her neck again and pulled, not un-gently, at her hair, making her head tilt backwards and exposing her long supple neck to his hungry kisses. Sandor trailed his lips along her neck, licking at her soft skin, kissing her pulse point while she writhed above him and literally mewled, sending another hot stab of pleasure coursing right through him.

She sighed and moaned again when he rolled the hard little nipple of her right breast between his thumb and forefinger, making her jerk her hips harder over him.

Sandor’s arousal was so intense he feared he would spend himself over her sweet cunt before he could even get a real taste of her.

Grabbing her almost roughly by the waist he swiftly turned her on her back, depositing her onto the soft feather bed, making her squeal in surprise and almost growl again when he found himself shifting his weight heavily between her legs while she raised her head to nip and suck at his good ear, making him shudder and grunt in pleasure.

Sansa opened her legs even wider with a throaty moan to allow him to press his hips against her nub, his hard cock lying hot and heavy between them. His arms were on each side of her head while he was propped up on his elbows so as not to crush her underneath his massive weight. Sandor then lowered himself to let his chest press against her stiff little nipples.

Capturing her mouth with his again, he started kissing her hungrily, heatedly, their tongues sliding wetly against each other, their teeth clashing. He then drew his head back to look at her closely as he caressed her left cheek with his right thumb. Despite the semi-darkness, he could see her pupils were dilated in arousal, the rhythm of her chest rising up and down fast in her excitement.

“Sansa,” he growled huskily, the sound emanating from deep within him. “What are you really doing here little bird? Aren’t you Jaime’s little lady love?” Fuck him to all the seven hells, he didn’t really want to ask her that, didn’t want to give her the chance to back down from this. Sandor had wanted and desired her for so long now that it felt almost painful, his need for her completely overpowering.

She only answered by growling back at him. Wrapping her slender arms around his strong neck she raised her head off the bed again and nipped at his lower lip, capturing it between her lips and sucking on it wetly.

Sandor groaned loudly and suckled at her upper lip in return. The both of them nipping and sucking and growling at each other.

He was both amazed and surprised at how . . . animalistic she almost acted with him. He’d never expected that of his little bird. Sansa Stark was always such a proper little lady, so courteous, yet here she was beneath him, her hips grinding wildly against his hard, swollen member while she moaned loudly in pleasure.

He softly nuzzled her neck and inhaled the sweet scent of her before licking at her pulse point. Then he made his way slowly down to her torso, pressing open-mouthed kisses on her warm skin before he captured one of her nipples between his lips and suckled hard, her stiff little nipple caught between his tongue and his teeth. He gently grazed at it and a deep moan was ripped from Sansa’s parted lips while she writhed underneath him.

“Oh yes . . . Sandor _please_ lick them, suck them.” He felt her hands going to the back of his head before she started scratching at his scalp in her pleasure.

Sandor was going mad with lust. His hard cock was aching with each of his hammering heartbeats, the blood rushing deafeningly in his ears. But he couldn’t keep on pleasuring her. He needed to know what this meant to her and if she truly wanted to be with him now, tonight, of her own free will, and that she wasn’t just using him.

“Little bird, please,” he pleaded with her. “Do not toy with me. I- I can’t take this. If- if you are please stop this . . .” He was begging. Gods! He hated how he sounded right now, begging her to stop playing with him, begging, begging, _begging_. _I’m no better than that fucking kneeler on that painted sign._

But instead of putting a stop to this, putting a stop to his misery, she lifted her head off the bed again and whispered in his good ear, sending shivers up and down his spine: “Fuck me Sandor, fuck me hard, my Hound.”

And with those words, Sandor Clegane came undone.

Giving her an anguished look—all the while she looked back at him with lust for him plainly etched in her eyes and over her beautiful features—he took himself in hand and steadied the head of his swollen and already-leaking member against her wet folds, making her whimper in need underneath him while he slid his cock up and down repeatedly against her cleft, spreading the wetness there.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned loudly. “I want you deep inside me. I want to come with you in me.”

“Oh gods, Sansa . . .” He still couldn’t believe that she was really asking him to fuck her, to enter her sweet cunt. The anticipation he felt at fucking her was running high. His cock throbbing hard in need, and wanting to savor this moment, he slowly pushed into her wet opening, his stiff member sliding agonisingly slowly inside her while he closed his eyes shut against the intense sensation as he felt himself being squeezed by her tightness.

Sansa hissed and bit his neck, her white little teeth almost breaking the skin and making him grunt both in pleasure and pain.

Sandor felt _incredible_. He was so bloody excited; he had actually never felt like this before. It seemed to him as if each and every one of his senses had suddenly become acute.

The little bird wrapped her long legs around his waist and dug her heels into the small of his back, drawing him to her. Sandor shuddered as her hands went to the sides of his face where she pressed her palms against his cheeks, the burned and the unburned one.

No one had touched him there before, and it made him tremble in complete want of her. And though he almost felt nothing where Gregor had pushed his face into the searing coals of the burning brazier, turning the right side of his face into a ruined mass of reddish scars, the knowledge that Sansa was actually touching him there made his heart swell even more for love of her.

“Sandor, my Sandor,” she was murmuring over and over again, his name like a litany spilling from her soft, wonderful lips.

He pressed hungry kisses over her own demanding mouth while he started to fuck into her slowly, his hips snapping hard with each sharp thrust into her.

“Sansa . . . oh _gods_ ,” he fucking _moaned_. He knew he was lost. In her, in this. He had never fucked anyone like this before. The women—whores—he had taken, he had always taken them from behind, like a dog mounting a bitch.  

This was different. He was trying to _make love_ to her. But he also had a deep desire to flip her over onto her stomach and to mount her on all fours.

_But no, you don’t want that. You want to take it slow with the little bird, you want to pleasure her, to please her, to make love to her. She’s not a whore; she’s a lady, a proper lady. And you want to look deep into her eyes as you make her come around your cock, dog. As she screams her pleasure while you reach your own peak inside her. Oh . . . fuck me._

“Harder, faster,” Sansa then whimpered loudly, her hands roaming over his body slowly, teasingly. It seemed to him as if her hands were everywhere; that they were all over his body all at once.

 _The Others take me_ , was his next somewhat coherent thought. How could he possibly take it slow now with the little bird like he wished to do if she wanted him to take her hard and fast? Still, he wasn’t going to refuse her now, would he?

Raising himself fully onto his hard arms, Sandor increased the tempo and he started fucking into her in earnest. Finding a steady rhythm with his hips, his breath coming in short gasps.

Sansa let out small cries of pleasure with each of his deep thrusts into her. She was so slick between her legs in complete desire and want of him that his cock was sliding wetly inside her tight, sweet cunt, sending more wonderful shivers up his spine again, making pleasure pool deep in his guts. The pressure in his hard length felt so incredibly good, so incredibly blissful that his hardened balls started to clench as they tapped repeatedly against her buttocks. He felt pleasure coil within him, his balls tightening against his shaft. “Fuck, if I don’t stop I’m going to come Sansa,” he breathed desperately.

She had slowly slid her smooth hands from his back down to his arse cheeks and was grabbing them fully, pressing against him so that she would make him fuck into her harder.

“No! Not yet, more . . . I want _more_ Sandor,” she whimpered, arching her back well off the bed and into him. “Fuck me harder, my Hound. I feel so good with you in me, I feel _whole_.”

 _Seven bloody buggering hells._ Sandor roared in complete and unadulterated bliss at her words. The urgent pleasure he was feeling deep inside her shooting from his balls to his stiff member and then all over his body. _I can’t come yet. The Seven save me, I need to hold back._

He slowed the rhythm of his hips and breathed slowly before he rolled them against Sansa, giving one deep thrust of his rock-hard cock into her, making his little bird moan as his hips snapped hard.

“Oh, oh, OH! Sandor, yes please.”

 _Fuck, she never forgets her courtesies, even now when we’re fucking._ He gave her a small smirk and thrust deeply into her again, making her whimper in need. “Tell me, do you like what I’m doing to you Sansa?”

“Gods YES! Sandor, faster please, why are you not fucking me harder?” She moaned again this time in frustration as she writhed underneath him, her hands scratching at his arse cheeks as she breathed shallowly.

“And why would I want to do that? Why should I fuck you faster and harder? Tell me little bird,” he chuckled darkly, thrusting into her again deep and slow. Then he stopped moving inside her for a heartbeat.

Sansa squirmed and gasped. “Because it feels good and I like it. I do. Please, more Sandor, I’m so excited give me more.” She jerked her hips over his hard cock, sending a delicious and wonderful shiver up and down his spine.

Sandor grunted, his voice was hoarse and low when he spoke again “Might be I don’t want you to peak just yet little bird.” Fuck he was so close to his own release, his cock was twitching inside her madly; his balls were tight and heavy, so full and so close to bursting. _Shit, I don’t want to spill my seed inside her yet. Not yet_.

He looked at Sansa who was still squirming beneath him and saw her eyes were dark in pure arousal, her pink nipples taut and hard, begging to be licked and sucked on again. Just staring at her so wanton underneath him was exciting Sandor even more.

He breathed slowly again and gave another jerk of his hips inside her, trying to suppress the urgent need he had to climax while every single fiber in his body was screaming at him to come, his spine tingling with lust and pleasure.

“Yessss, please Sandor, I want to peak now!”

“Oh yes, little bird, you want that, but I’m not letting you come yet,” he told her smugly while he barely could keep himself from stepping over that sweet edge.

Unwrapping her long slender legs almost roughly from around his waist, he brought them over his shoulders, allowing him to sheathe his hard cock deeper into Sansa who hissed at the new sensation.

“Sansa,” he groaned, rolling his hips downward against her, his slick cock entering her so deeply it made his entire body tingle in complete lust for her.

Sansa showed him her white teeth again and growled low in her throat before a deep moan was ripped from her lips. “Yes, gods yes! Sandor it feels good. I can feel your manhood touching something so good inside me.”

“Little bird . . . I- I can’t,” Sandor now almost gasped in a panic. He wasn’t used to fucking a woman he actually cared about, least of all loved, and the slew of sensations was already bringing him so fucking close to his release, making him feel the urgent need to spill his seed deep inside her. Yet he did not want that, did not want it to end so soon with her, even though she begged him to fuck her harder.

Grunting hard, he slipped his hard cock out of her, making her protest loudly.

“What are you doing?” She cried.

“Sansa,” he said in a raspy moan. Fuck, his voice sounded so very vulnerable. _She’s making me vulnerable_. “I don’t want to peak now little bird, I want the two of us to come together.”

Sansa looked at him deeply, her darkened eyes searching his. “Yes,” she almost whispered. “I want us to peak together too,” she said. Then she gave him another lust-filled look.

Another deep wave of arousal crashed right through him and almost made him come here and there, almost unraveling him. Gods! He had no idea how long he would last. He scrambled off the bed and grabbed her roughly by the waist, making her yelp in surprise.

“Turn around Sansa, get on all fours by the edge of the bed. I’ll fuck you from behind . . .” _like a good dog_ , he thought.

The sight of Sansa’s wonderful arse cheeks made him throb even harder for her. Grabbing her hips almost roughly, and digging his fingers into her soft flesh, he sheathed himself inside her pink wet cunt in one long glide, making her growl again while she turned her head abruptly towards him, her now-limp hair falling to the side and spilling onto the bed like tendrils of burning hot flames.

“Yessss!” she moaned in ecstasy, looking at him deeply as she bit her lower lip. “Yes, oh yes, oh oh OH, gods YES, Sandor.”

Sandor was snapping his hips into her sharply while he was being engulfed in this deep pleasure he was experiencing with his little bird, with Sansa. He tried regaining some sort of control, fucking into her as rhythmically as he could while she moaned loudly.

The little bird started jerking her hips backwards into him, fucking herself onto his stiff cock and letting out small cries of pleasure as she did so. _Well that wasn’t such a good idea after all_ , he thought hazily.

She lowered her upper body over the bed, with only her luscious arse now up in the air. Dimly, Sandor became aware that she had snaked her right arm between her body and the bed and that she was now rubbing her hard little nub wetly.

“Fuck, oh gods it feels good,” Sandor groaned and then grunted in complete bliss. His cock was so hard inside her tightness it was again driving him mad. He wanted to release inside her so bad now that was all he could think about. _I want . . . I want to see her face_ , he managed to think coherently through a haze of pleasure. “Little bird, are you close?” he panted, slowing his thrusts, wanting to wait for her.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “I want _more_ , fuck- fuck me hard again.”

Roaring, Sandor took his cock wetly out of her and turned her on her back onto the bed and without skipping a beat he entered her again and started pounding into her.

“How- how does it feel, Sansa?” He asked her as he snapped his hips relentlessly, his breath coming in hard and fast, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears.

“Good, so good, _you_ feel good Sandor.” She slid her right arm back between her legs and started to rub her hard little nub wetly again. “I want you—”

“ _How much_ do you want me little bird?” He panted.

“I want you more . . .” she let out a loud moan and brought her hips sharply against his “More than all the lemoncakes in the world.”

Sandor grunted in pleasure at her words. Then he asked, “Do you like my cock buried deep inside you?” Fuck, this talk was exciting him even more. _Bad. Idea. Again_. But he couldn’t stop himself.

“YES! I love your cock inside me,” Sansa whined as she brought her left arm to her breasts and started pinching her hard little nipples in turn. Another loud moan ripped from her throat made him shiver in pure fucking bliss.

Sandor had slowed his thrusts again so he wouldn’t peak in her just yet and she was now rolling her hips harder against him in need for more, in need for him.

“Gods Sandor, fuck me _harder_ ,” she whimpered in exasperation.

Sandor barked out a raspy laugh and stopped fucking her, his hands now resting on her knees while her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. He leaned over, propping himself up with his right arm, and brought his face in closely to hers, their noses almost touching. Their gaze locked, and Sandor saw how her eyes were almost completely dark in deep arousal.

“And tell me, little bird, why I should I do _that_?” He smiled smugly at her.

Sansa panted and squirmed underneath him. “Because,” she started, breathless.

“Because what, Sansa?”

Sandor felt so close to his release his cock was twitching madly inside her. He breathed slowly in and out, holding back, waiting for Sansa to _beg_ him. He was so close he could almost taste it.

“Say it again little bird,” he growled low in his throat.

She panted again and squirmed “I want you to make me come.”

He smirked at her.

“Stop touching your cunt, Sansa.”

“What? Why?” She cried out.

“Do as I say.”

Sansa glared at him, making him chuckle, but did what he told her and took her hand off her wet nub.

“Now, Sansa, tell me . . . Do you want me to touch you?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered. Then, more strongly “Yes, please touch me Sandor,” and ground her hips over his cock, making him groan deeply.

_Fuck me._

Sandor brought in his calloused thumb slowly and gently over her wet nub, making her hips jump against his hand. He started rubbing her the way he had seen her do. Sandor had never pleasured a woman that way before and he had never cared to either. But this was Sansa, this was his little bird. He wanted to do everything with her.

“Gods!” Sansa moaned.

Sandor started moving his hips again, his rock-hard cock sliding slowly in and out of her while he gently rubbed his thumb over her hard little bundle of flesh and nerves. Sansa was panting hard in pleasure, her soft hands going up his muscular arms and she started scratching at his skin, sending a pleasurable shiver up his spine, the pain almost turning into pleasure.

As her whimpers became louder and louder with each of his rubs over her hard nub, Sandor snapped his hips harder into her, finding a rhythm that had her squirm hard underneath him while her nails scratched wildly at his forearms.

He started panting hard, and a growl rose within his chest. He was getting so much pleasure it was almost driving him to spill himself inside her. _Not yet, not yet,_ he kept telling himself. _I’ll give her what she wants._

“Beg me,” he told her, his rasping voice so low and hoarse he almost did not recognize it.

“Please, Sandor. I beg you to make me come. Please! I want to come with you in me.”

He heard a deafening roar that could only have come from his chest, and leaving her nub and holding her hips tightly with his hands, he started snapping them hard. The sound of their naked skins rising loudly in the room mingled with Sansa’s cries of pleasure.

Her fluttering fingers went back between her legs and she was rubbing her nub again almost desperately. Her breath suddenly hitched as he fucked her hard and fast. His blessed release right there, right around the corner.

Sansa’s firm white teats were bouncing madly in time as he moved jerkily inside her and he reached a hand up to first cup one firm breast before he squeezed and then thumbed one very hard nipple. The pressure in his cock was so blissfully excruciating, he knew he would peak soon, but he wanted Sansa to peak with him.

Her legs were still wrapped around his waist and he could feel them trembling in pleasure. Then he scooped his right arm under her buttocks and hitched her hips higher up. Deepening the angle with which he was fucking into her. Fuck, he wasn’t going to last long.

“Sing little bird” he moaned. “Sing your pretty little song for me my beautiful, wanton Sansa . . .” His voice broke and it sounded so vulnerable again as he looked at her almost pleadingly. Fuck him, there he was, begging her to sing her sweet song for _him_. A song he had so wanted to hear for so bloody long now.

Sansa cried out “I’m coming . . . oh gods, don’t stop fucking me! I’m coming!” She wailed. Sandor saw her face contort in pleasure, her white teeth biting at her lower lip before a look of complete bliss overtook her features as her body suddenly convulsed underneath him and her cunt started to clench painfully around his hard engorged member, drawing from him his own, powerful release.

“Oh fuck _Sansa_ . . .” Sandor moaned out loud, his climax so strong he almost saw stars behind his eyelids and he hissed his pleasure while his seed spilled wildly inside Sansa’s warm tightness.

He reached down and almost collapsed on top of her, covering her mouth with his, kissing her deeply as if he wanted to touch her very soul. She moaned and ground her hips against him while trying to draw out their pleasure. His heart was beating so hard and so fast in his chest he felt himself tremble.

“Sansa, Sansa,” he moaned against her lips while she kissed him back hungrily, her long slender arms going around his neck as she held on to him as if she was holding on for dear life itself. Rising up slowly, he dragged her up with him and she slid her long legs below his arse cheeks to wrap them tightly over his thighs while she slid her tongue into his mouth.

Sandor held on to her, feeling her heart race against him, while his own was beating madly in his chest. He felt so wonderful with her in his arms; he did not want this intimacy with Sansa to end.

“Little bird . . .” he breathed against her needy mouth.

“Shhhh” she whispered as she kissed her way to his good ear, making him shudder.

She planted wet kisses from his ear to his good cheek, while he knew she was softly caressing the scarred side of his face. _It feels so good to know Sansa wants to touch me there . . ._ making his heart feel close to bursting. He loved her so much, needed her so much, he felt the deep need to tell her how he felt.

“I need to tell you . . .” he rasped softly.

Sansa looked him deep in the eyes, the moon still shining brightly in his bedchamber, allowing him to see her clear enough. Her eyes still seemed to be glazed over but she spoke to him.

“I know Sandor,” she said, smiling sweetly at him before pressing her soft and swollen lips against his.

He took both her hands in his right one before pressing them against his chest; against his beating heart.

“Sansa,” he said again. Seven hells! His fucking voice sounded so broken and unsure. Something he’d never heard before. And then, as if Sandor was waging the greatest bloody battle he had ever undertook in his entire life he added, “I love you.”


	15. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after. How will Sansa react when she realizes what she has done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to thank by dear friend Caroh99 who helped me get through this very difficult chapter. She provided help, support and inspiration when none was forthcoming. Thank you <3<3<3

**Sansa**

Sansa Stark tentatively opened one eye as soon as the ray of light hit her face and she wrinkled her nose. She felt sore all over but last night’s pleasant dream, where she had boldly made love to Sandor Clegane again, had come back to her and made her blush as she thought about the indecent things she had done to him, as well as the indecent things he had done to her.

She turned on her back and stretched like one of those stray cats she used to see around King’s Landing and in the Red Keep while her wild little sister Arya had ran after them “Because Syrio said so,” and she smiled sadly at the remembrance. Then she turned back into the warm chest by her side and closed her eyes shut again; feeling contented and not wanting to rise from the soft, comfortable feather bed for a little while longer. _Jaime_ , she thought with a sigh.

A muscular arm was then thrown protectively over one of her shoulders and she could hear the strong and steady beating of a heart, as well as feel the steady rhythmic rise and fall of the chest against which she was so warmly nudged. Her legs entwined themselves in a jumble of limbs with a warm and muscular pair of hairy long legs.

She felt so warm under the covers and furs and wrapped in this protective arm she did not want to rise, but her tummy was rumbling and making hungry noises and her bladder was starting to feel uncomfortable. _I will need to rise from bed soon and make water_ , she thought sighing again.

She screwed her eyes shut. _No, I don’t want to get out of bed; I want to sleep . . . more_. Then she slid her left arm over the warm torso and rested her hand against the ribcage, pressing her palm over the strongly beating heart, and felt something was _different_. The man felt taller, _broader_.

 _This is not Jaime_ , she thought as her heart dropped dangerously to the pit of her stomach.

Opening her eyes again she looked up at the man in whose arms she was wrapped and saw it wasn’t Jaime as she had first thought upon waking. _Sandor_ . . .

Sansa had a moment of sheer blinding panic. _Oh gods! What have I done? It wasn’t a dream! Not a dream. It was very real and I gave myself to Sandor Clegane, gave myself to the Hound._

She sat abruptly, dragging the bed sheets with her, her heart hammering, her pulse racing in her veins, the blood rushing deafeningly in her ears. It almost felt as if her body had been set on fire, all her senses were tingling. She clasped the bed sheet to her breasts almost desperately, her eyes opened wide in shock, her mouth opened in a silent O.

Sandor grunted behind her and shifted on the bed, making the soft feather mattress sink under his massive weight as he moved, while he seemingly seeked the warmth of her body. He wrapped both of his strong arms around her and sighed before he moved his calloused hand against the small of her back, caressing her in a soothing up and down gesture, making her skin rise in delicious goose prickles and her womanhood start to throb.

Despite the comforting and arousing gesture, Sansa’s back became as rigid as a pole, her shoulders heavy with tension, whilst she held her breath; and a sleepy Sandor seemed to notice just how tense she had become at once. “So, the little bird is regretting her decision to _fuck_ her sworn shield last night,” he growled, his voice thick with sleep.

 _No_ , was Sansa’s first thought. Then she stuttered “I- I . . .” Her head was spinning and the words seemed to get stuck in her throat. It felt dry as chalk.

Sandor slowly unwrapped his arms from around her waist, making her feel their absence almost cruelly at once. He lay back against the pile of soft feather pillows stacked against the headboard, his strong muscular arms folded behind his head. He was fully awake now, and was looking at her intently, the expression over his scarred features sullen.

Sansa turned toward Sandor, dragging the crisp woolen bed sheets with her. The warm golden light of the early morning fell on the burned side of his face like a lover’s kiss, softening the look of his scars and making her heart melt for him. His hair was spilled in complete disarray around his head and over his arms. Her own hair was falling in messy strands over her shoulders and down her back. She noticed how Sandor’s beard was shot through with a bit of grey; much like Jaime’s. She felt dizzy at the thought. _Stop it. It is done. You cannot change what has happened. And it felt . . . it still feels_ right _somehow. Why is that?_

“I what, little bird? What are you trying to say?” Sandor snarled, reminding Sansa at once of the Hound she knew in King’s Landing. “Are you telling me what we did last night, what we did just then meant nothing to you? Because it meant _everything_ to me. Think I go around fucking . . . making _love_ to bloody women with that face?” He pointed at his burns while he glowered at her.

Sansa blushed furiously first in embarrassment then in anger and felt heat creeping up her chest and going to her cheeks. She bunched her hands in tight little fists while Sandor still glared at her, a deep scowl on his face.

 _Why does he always have to be so hurtful? Does it give him joy to scare people? No, he once told you it gave him joy to_ kill _people. But that was in another life. It was another man, another Sandor Clegane that told you this. Not the man lying next to you now. Not the man you gave yourself to last night, was it not?_

Then the anger seemed to leave him and she felt it leave her as well. “Fuck Sansa . . . I’m sorry.” He rasped. Sandor looked at her quickly before his eyes settled on an invisible point in front of him.

While he clearly wanted to avoid her gaze, Sansa was close enough to peer into his eyes. _What color are they?_ She wondered as she stared at them in the shifting early morn light. _I thought they were brown but I can see speckles of green there too. They are beautiful_.

Sandor cleared his throat. “Like what you see little bird?” He had gone back to looking at her. The intensity of his gaze troubled her and made her womanhood ache again.

Sansa blushed once more and she lowered her gaze demurely to the bed. Why was he making her feel this way? But before she could say one word Sandor spoke again.

“Seven bleeding hells. What are you doing to me Sansa?” he asked with a hint of . . .  was it bitterness in his tone?

She frowned as she pondered Sandor’s question. _What am I doing to him? What is he doing to me? I_ feel _him_. _His pleasure was my pleasure last night, and I felt it so strongly. Am I going mad?_

“I- I don’t know, Sandor,” she finally said while she nibbled nervously at her lower lip.  She remained silent for a little while, the silence between them heavy. Then, staring intently at him, Sansa continued “But I do know that I don’t want to hurt you. Nor do I want to hurt Jaime. Last night . . . last night, when I came to you, I- I thought . . . I thought I was dreaming.”  She then began to play nervously with the bed sheet covering her breasts, smoothing it down as if she were brushing invisible lemoncake crumbs from her lap.

Sandor hissed in his breath at her admission. His mouth became drawn into a tight line while he was staring at her. His brows were furrowed and she could see his jaw clenching, the muscles underneath his bearded cheeks working hard.

She suddenly felt like a frightened deer being hunted by a pack of hungry wolves. _No,_ I _am the wolf. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the direwolf is my sigil. I can be brave._

Taking a deep breath, Sansa continued “I don’t regret what we’ve done Sandor. I have dreamed of you for so long . . .” She looked at him intently before adding almost in a whisper “I do realize that I wanted this to happen. That I _wanted_ you. I have wanted you for so long now but I thought you were dead. Until you came to me here. I . . . I often dreamed of you making love to me, _taking_ me . . .” she admitted.

“And I of you little bird,” the massive scarred man lying sullenly next to her also confessed hoarsely, and she felt her heart swell with love of him.

 _I love him. I love him. I love him . . ._ she realized painfully _. And I love Jaime too. Gods be good. Can I love two men at the same time? Is this even possible?_ Possible or not, Sansa knew she should not, ought not.

She swallowed hard before continuing. “But then Jaime and I . . . Jaime and I were thrown together in King’s Landing because of Joffrey. He made us . . .” she shuddered, almost afraid to say _it_ , afraid of what Sandor would think of her or even do. “He made us have . . . sex together.” Sansa held her breath, her eyes back to being downcast, her hands still playing nervously with the bed sheet covering her nakedness.

Sandor swore loudly. “That fucking cunt,” he spat through gritted teeth. “I should have killed the little shit a long time ago. Should have slit his fucking throat instead of telling him to go fuck himself that sodding night. Gregor, my _dear_ brother, never shied away from killing babes still suckling at their mother’s teats. I should have followed his example for once where it concerned that cunt Cersei’s bawling little lion brat. Good that it would have done the Seven Kingdoms to spare us all from _King_ Joffrey’s idiotic rule. And you would have been safe, little bird.”

His voice was so filled with dark seething anger Sansa _felt_ it, felt Sandor’s rage. She stared at him again, a shudder crawling up her spine as he went on: “I should have forced you to come with me the night the Blackwater burned, when that shit of a dwarf set it on fire. I . . .” Sandor trailed off hoarsely and Sansa heard the sob that caught in his throat.

 _It wasn’t your fault,_ she tried telling him with her eyes. _Please understand that._ But what she only managed to say was his name, “Sandor.” She wanted to tell him so much, but instead she instinctively reached her hand to cup his burned cheek, the contact of her skin over his sending a bolt of lightning course through her.

Sandor’s reaction to her touch was different. He flinched and then recoiled before his body went completely rigid, but then he breathed out slowly on a long exhale and relaxed. His eyes searched hers and Sansa thought he looked so very vulnerable. He raised his large hand and pressed it against hers, making her skin rise in wonderful goose prickles as his calloused thumb slowly caressed the top of her hand in soothing circles. Sandor’s hand was so big and warm, her own small hand all but disappeared beneath his.

 _He is the fiercest warrior I have ever known_ , _one of the most dangerous men in all the Seven Kingdoms_ , she thought. _Yet now he almost looks afraid. Has the rage inside him been truly gentled? Have the gods answered my prayers?_ Sansa wondered.

She was ultimately encouraged by Sandor who gave her a slight nod. Sansa softly trailed light fingertips over his reddish scars, feeling how the skin there was a bit leathery as she glided trembling fingers over the burned side of his face and almost froze in fear when she heard a soft moan escape Sandor’s lips. Standing still with her heart in her throat, Sansa held her breath. But he only turned his head lightly on his left side so she was better able to look at the ruined mass of scarred flesh there. His eyes seemed to follow the path traced by her fingers over his burns while his mouth was slightly opened, his breathing rapidly becoming ragged. _No one must have touched him there before but me_.The dawning realization made her heart swell with love for him again.

Sansa resumed stroking him lightly; all the while shooting glances at him to make sure Sandor would let her continue her exploration of him. Moving her hand over the burned side of his face, she softly brushed aside the few stray strands of hair that fell limply there since no hair grew from the bit of scalp that had been seared in that burning brazier by his monster of a brother The Mountain That Rides. Then she slowly caressed the ear that had also been twisted into a mass of burned scars and sighed deeply at how sad she felt for him.

Leaving his ear, she then traced the outline of his bearded jaw with her knuckles, feeling the strong hair tickle her and making her skin rise in goose prickles as a pleasurable shiver rippled through her entire body.

Sansa breathed and let her hand fall back on the bed. Then she spoke again. “It is done Sandor. What is past is past, we can never go back to change the things that have happened to us. Change the things that we have done. But I must tell you . . . I must let you know . . . Jaime,” She had to say this no matter how difficult she found it, she had to let Sandor know the terrible things that had happened to her, and to Jaime.

“Know what, little bird? What do you mean to say about the bloody Lion of Lannister that I don’t already know?” His words were harsh but his tone was not un-gentle.

Sansa sighed, slightly annoyed that Sandor wasn’t letting her finish. She was finding it so difficult and painful to say. Could he not see that? Could he not _sense_ that?

She swallowed hard and thought, _Mother help me, I need to tell him this_. _Warrior give me strength_. “Jaime’s father, Lord Tywin, he- he sent us to the Rock and we went through so many horrible things together. Jaime lost a hand because of me, and we were captured and held by the Black Wolves and I, Sandor, I . . . I lost a child. Mine and Jaime’s.” A sob caught in her throat then and she felt a salty wetness roll down her cheeks as a wave of sadness crashed through her. She felt like drowning. She also saw the look of pain that flashed in Sandor’s eyes. _He did not know any of this. Of course he did not, how could he?_

Then his jaw clenched hard once more and he breathed slowly, his voice now but a hoarse whisper. “I am sorry little bird.”

Sansa smiled sadly. “Sandor, I want you to understand that my feelings for Jaime are,” she hesitated, looking for the right words again, “real. Perhaps not for the same reasons why most people fall in love. Maybe what Jaime and I have was born out of necessity, out of need for comfort. But I also need you to know that my feelings for you are . . .” she trailed off before adding “I think they are real too.”

Sandor shifted and propped himself up on his left elbow. He reached with his right hand and hesitatingly touched her face, brushing his rough thumb over her cheek, clearly unsure of himself. “I know you are no longer the chirping bird I knew since we last saw each other over a year past now little bird. And I understand that you have gone through some horrible shitty things. I can see your scars. See the marks on your body even though they are faint. Knew the little cunt must have kept on beating you. And I did nothing but try . . . _try_ to gentle the rage I had in me there on the Quiet Isle whilst he beat you bloody.” His voice broke then, and Sansa’s heart also broke for him. They were both hurting so much.

She reached up her hand and touched his burned cheek once more, feeling a tenderness swell into her hammering heart. For him. For the man sitting right next to her. Sandor Clegane.

He then sat straight up on the bed. Even sitting he was a good head taller than she was and Sansa had to raise her eyes up to him. His body was turned toward her and he was so very close, she could feel the heat emanating from his strong, muscular frame. _He is so very large_ , she thought. _Larger than Jaime_.

Sandor laid a warm hand over her right shoulder, making her skin feel like burning underneath his calloused fingers while another jolt of lightening coursed through her body. Then he put a huge hand under her chin, making her look him deep in the eyes.

“What do you intend to do now little bird?” Sandor asked her, hesitation thick in his raspy voice. “I’ll not say a word to Jaime. But the bloody Lion will find out soon enough you have spent the night here with me. Don’t think there aren’t spies at the Rock. I just want you to be prepared . . . I don’t want you to get hurt.” He let go of her.

Sansa hugged herself on the bed, her eyes back to being downcast. She knew Sandor was right, just as she knew she had no right to be in love with both Jaime _and_ Sandor. It would not be fair to any one of them.

“No. And I never meant for either of you to get hurt too,” Sansa added in a soft whisper.

*****

Sansa was back in her bedchamber. She had first made her way directly to the garderobe to finally relieve her bursting bladder, and she was now lying on her left side curled up in bed underneath the warmth of the coverlets and furs, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped tightly around them.

She had fallen asleep a few times, waking, crying, and then going back to sleep again before waking up almost in tears. Her maid Jeyne had come and tried to rouse her but Sansa had only snapped at her and had sent her away.

Sunset followed sunrise and with it, Jaime had soon followed. When he had tried speaking to her, asking her what was wrong, she had only stared right in front of her and had gently asked him to leave her be and that she was simply feeling ill.

“Sansa, please,” Jaime had begged her. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me. Are you with child Sansa? Did you lose another child? Should I send Maester Aurane to your bedchamber?” Then he said desperately “ _Please_ Sansa, sweetheart, tell me! What is wrong?”

 _He just called me sweetheart_. Sansa felt like crying again. “Jaime . . . please do not ask me,” she had managed to say in a whisper while he sat by the side of her bed, looking at her with worry etched plainly over his beautiful golden features. Sansa glanced at his stump and barely managed to stifle a sob that threatened to escape her lips while her heart broke into a million tiny pieces.

Then, almost as if understanding some part of the truth he said darkly “Is it Clegane Sansa? Did he do something to you? If he hurt you I swear I will kill him.”

“No!” she breathed in a panic as she laid a trembling hand over his forearm, her heart hammering in her chest. She saw him stare at it and she withdrew it quickly. “No . . . Sandor did nothing wrong.” Then, gaining some sort of control over herself she added “Please, do not ask me now, please Jaime. Not yet. I will tell you when I am ready.” Her voice was trembling and another sob threatened to escape her lips but she managed to push it back down and swallowed hard.

Jaime stared at her silently, his grey-blue eyes searching hers intently, as if he were trying to figure out the truth of what was wrong with her, as if he were trying to look straight into her very soul.

Sansa swallowed hard again, gulping. “Please Jaime. I need to be alone for now,” she whispered. She was staring at him, almost begging him. _Please Jaime, let me be for now. I need to think. Oh gods, I am sorry._

After what seemed to be to her an eternity, Jaime slowly nodded and rose from the bed, leaving her behind while she stared despairingly at his back.

*****

The next day, Sansa had made up her mind. She wanted to know if there was a reason why she was feeling those _feelings_ so strongly about Sandor.

_There must be a reason why we dream of each other this way, and why we feel what the other feels. Me more strongly._

When she had lived back at Winterfell, her family had always gone to Maester Luwin when they had any questions or worries. The wise, kindly maester had known so many things about life; which plants to use to cure different illnesses; the position of the stars in the dark sky and the constellations they made; how to bring crying babies into the world; doing sums and bookkeeping; the history of the Great Houses and families of Westeros; the lore and legends and stories Sansa had loved so much as a child, and even a few things or two about magic. One of his many chain links he at forged at the Citadel in Oldtown had been made of Valyrian steel—indicating he had studied magic and the occult; even though he was not a great believer of the dark arts. He had thought the warlocks across the Narrow Sea charlatans the lot of them.

Jaime had told her that Casterly Rock’s own maester, Maester Aurane, had studied magic too. _Perhaps it is magic that unites Sandor and I?_

She chose the hour she knew both Sandor and Jaime would be at sword practice in the Stone Garden to go and see the maester. _Perhaps he will have the answer I so desperately seek._

The maester’s solar, where he spent his days working, reading, and doing all that a maester should, was in one of the Rock’s highest towers. Although the climb was not as arduous as the one from the caves to Jaime’s solar and the guest quarters, it was still a steep ascent and Sansa was almost out of breath by the time she had reached it.

Taking a deep breath while her heart thumped wildly in exertion, Sansa knocked on the wooden door and waited patiently until she heard a strong voice call out. “Enter.”

She pushed the heavy oaken door slowly and entered Maester Aurane’s solar. He was standing on some sort of wooden ladder propped against a high book case that almost touched the ceiling. He had just fished out a massive leather bound tome from a high shelf.

His white bushy eyebrows shot up when he saw her. “Lady Sansa!” he exclaimed, truly surprised to see her.

Maester Aurane could not be a day under sixty. He was an old man with shoulder length white hair and a long white beard with crisscrossing lines all over his weathered face. He was slightly stooped under the strain and heaviness of his maester’s chain which was made of many metals—including Valyrian steel. He was dressed in fine grey lambswool robes.

Sansa rushed to his aid. “Please, let me help you Maester Aurane,” Sansa said, reaching her hands up to grab the heavy book.

“Thank you my lady, that is most kind of you,” he said in a voice that was deep and rich. Almost velvety. It somehow belied his age. He handed her the massive tome and smiled at her, a look of relief crossing his wrinkled benign face.

Sansa glanced at the title of the book: ‘A History of House Lannister,’ before depositing it on the maester’s littered work table.

 _He has more books and parchments on there than Jaime has on his solar’s massive work table,_ Sansa thought as she looked around. In the corner of the solar stood a large wicker cage filled with a few ravens used to send messages all over the Seven Kingdoms. The birds seemed to be looking at her, following her with their black beady eyes, making her feel uncomfortable while Sandor’s voice rang in her ears: _Don’t think there aren’t spies at the Rock, little bird. “Corn, corn, corn,”_ one of the birds cawed.

The maester made his slow careful way down the ladder before making his way to her. “Tell me, how can I help you Lady Stark?” He asked as he looked at her kindly. He had slipped his arms inside his large bell sleeves.

Sansa sat on a high back chair in front of Maester Aurane when he invited her to sit.

“I . . .” She began. How was she going to tell him about what was happening between herself and Sandor Clegane? How could she possibly describe what was happening to her to the kindly old maester? “Before I begin, I must know that everything I am to tell you shall be kept secret between us.”

Maester Aurane’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course Lady Sansa. I am bound by a sacred oath—as are all maesters—never to reveal what is to be said in confidence here between us. And do not worry; there are no prying eyes or ears in this chamber.” He winked and then smiled kindly at her and Sansa’s heart clenched as she was reminded of good, kind, _dead_ Maester Luwin.

Sansa shifted uneasily on the chair. She also started smoothing the creases of her dress nervously while trying to find the right words to say.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Sansa told him everything.

*****

 _I am a warg_. Sansa thought, still stunned by the revelation Maester Aurane had made to her earlier. She was back in her bedchamber and was sitting in the middle of her large feather bed while she hugged her knees to her.

He had explained to Sansa how wargs, or skinchangers, could slip underneath an animal’s skin, and sometimes even _someone_ ’s skin. Overtaking them, _becoming_ them. _But I am not slipping into Sandor. I am only feeling what he feels._

That somewhat explained why she felt so connected to Sandor, the kindly maester had told her. _But does it explain the depth of my feelings for him as well?_

Maester Aurane had told her that it could be one of the reasons why she felt she was in love with Sandor Clegane, but he also told her that her feelings for the former Lannister Hound could be as real as the ones she also knew she had for Jaime. Which only served to confuse her even more.

 _I am not Queen Cersei. I would rather let them both go before hurting anyone of them._ She knew she loved and wanted both Sandor and Jaime. But that was something neither one of them would be willing to do: share her. Not that she wanted to be shared. Still . . .

 _Did any of my brothers or even Arya experience any of this?_ She wondered. _They’re all dead or gone now; there is no one to tell me. Except Jon. Jon who is north on the Wall serving the rest of his life as a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch. Perhaps he too is a warg? Perhaps he would know? I need to write to him. Yes. I will write to Jon and ask. Jaime will let me send a raven to Castle Black I am sure._

She hugged herself again, this time daring to hope.

*****

Light was fading fast in Sansa’s bedchamber. It was now evenfall; and she had finally made her decision: the most difficult he had ever taken. _Not that I was ever given much choice of anything in my life since I came to King’s Landing now more than two years past._ She was now a free woman, as Jaime had told her. _But am I really free? Sandor said I could not walk out of the Rock if I wanted to._

Brushing the thought aside, she rose from bed and called on her maid Jeyne. Sansa had a bath and some food brought up.

She ate frugally first, nibbling at some sweet meats and figs and dates before washing it all down with strong ale. She almost choked. Then, divesting herself of her dress, shift and smallclothes, she sank neck deep into the fragrant hot soothing water; but it did not bring her any relief from the pain that she felt.

Taking up the wooden bath brush, she began by scrubbing herself pink before washing herself with her favorite scented soap; winter roses. She submerged her head under the water for a few seconds before emerging in a gasp. She then proceeded to wash her long hair thoroughly before twisting it into a braid to wring the water from her long wet locks. When she had finished, she stepped out of the tub gingerly, water splashing all over the red flagstones. Grabbing one of the soft towels that had been laid beside the bathtub, Sansa dried herself thoroughly, patting at her wet skin. Her maid Jeyne had fished out a blue lambswool dress and had laid it down on her bed for Sansa to wear before she had left her to herself.

She slipped it on after cladding herself in a white silk shift and smallclothes, the softness of the fabric somehow comforting to her. She slipped on white lambswool hoses tied by blue velvet ribbons and slid her dainty feet into a pair of soft, ankle high calf leather boots.

Then she sat before her looking glass. She dried her hair and then brushed her long auburn locks until it shone, letting it fall loosely in a red cascade over her shoulders. She then styled it in the northern fashion. _They both like my hair this way,_ she thought.

Her hands trembled as she twisted and pinned her hair, and her heart was hammering in her chest; she was so nervous she was shaking as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She tried on a tremulous smile but ultimately gave up in the attempt. Her heart just wasn’t in it. Sansa sighed sadly at her reflection, resigned, and turned her head away.

Rising from her chair, she made her way to her bedchamber door. Opening it slowly, she saw at once that Sandor was standing at attention outside her door—as he was always wont to do as her sworn shield, until she would retire for the night and lock her door, or when she would join Jaime in his bedchamber.

He turned his head toward her when he heard the door open, and she saw his huge hand resting lightly on the pommel of his blade, Trueheart.

Their eyes locked and Sansa’s heart skipped a beat, sending her pulse racing again, making her both giddy and miserable all at once.

Sandor simply stood there looking at her, his dark eyes intent upon her. He was so tall and strong and completely massive. _And so beautiful_ , she thought, despite the burns and the scars.  _How could I not see him like this before?_ _  
_

Without saying a word, Sansa moved in front of him as he shot her a lingering look. She made her way towards Jaime’s solar with a decided step, while Sandor fell in behind her and followed her silently, quiet as a shadow.


	16. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister makes the most difficult decision of his life. How will he react to Sansa's news?

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister was so deep in thought as he read and re-read the small piece of parchment he had received from King’s Landing over again that he did not hear Sansa enter his solar.

The news he had received by raven disturbed him. _Dark wings, dark words._ In his experience, ravens were never bringers of joyous news. Dread, despair and death often followed their black wings.

He read it again to make sure he had understood all.

His twin Cersei had revived the Faith Militant in his absence, before having Margaery Tyrell arrested for treason, and now the High Septon (or the High Sparrow as he preferred to style himself) had now arrested her and accused Cersei of murdering the previous High Septon, amongst a slew of other charges.

It seemed that Ser Osney Kettleblack had revealed as much, and betrayed her under torture.

Jaime knew his twin, the woman he had once loved more than his own life, had slowly descended into folly and madness; he simply had had no idea just how far gone she truly was.

 _She is mad_ , he thought. _When my father had been alive he could rein her in, but now that he is dead and has become a feast for maggots, there has been no one there to stop her foly._

His uncle Kevan was also writing that he and her ministers had seized control of the government while Cersei awaited her own trial locked away in the Great Sept of Baelor. Ser Kevan would be filling in her previous position as regent to King Tommen, while Aurane Waters—the man Cersei had named as her new Lord Admiral—fled with her costly new fleet, throwing the crown into further debt.

Jaime knew that since she was now accused of capital crimes, Cersei would need a Kingsguard champion to defend her.

And he had a feeling she would request him. But Jaime had resigned from the Kingsguard, had he not? _Let another of my former brothers defend her honor_ , he thought.

To make matters worse, Jaime had also learned from his uncle that Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, had finally arrived at the capital with his paramour Ellaria Sand and a delegation from Dorne in tow (he was to have been there for Joff’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell months ago to take a seat at the Small Council but had been ‘unable’ to attend), and had demanded a trial by combat with Sandor Clegane’s brother Gregor—The Mountain That Rides.

The eldest Clegane had raped and killed Oberyn’s sweet sister Elia years ago on Lord Tywin’s orders, and bashed her infant son’s head against a wall while Ser Amory Lorch stabbed her daughter, the little Princess Rhaenys. Oberyn intended to stay in King’s Landing until justice was met.

 _The Red Viper will also be a major problem_ , Jaime mused.

The Kingslayer had first met the man years ago when Prince Oberyn’s mother, the Princess of Dorne—who had been a close friend to Jaime’s own dead mother—had wanted to create a union between the Lannisters and the Martells by marrying Jaime to her daughter Elia and his twin Cersei to her son Oberyn. But Joanna Lannister’s untimely death crushed these plans when his father, Lord Tywin, only offered Tyrion’s hand in marriage to Elia. Causing a riff between the two Houses.

Jaime had been so very young at the time. Not even yet a green squire wet behind the ears.

Later on, when Jaime became a knight of the Kingsguard to the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen, Elia Martell was married to the king’s son Prince Rhaegar after Aerys had refused to marry his heir to Cersei. Then Robert Baratheon started a war over Lyanna Stark, and the Mad King seemed to descend even more into madness when he had Lord Rickard Stark executed without a trial by burning him alive with wildfire whilst his eldest son Brandon helplessly watched on, strapped into a torture device that slowly strangled him in his struggles to save his father.

Then, during the rebellion, Jaime killed Aerys by shoving his sword up the king’s back and then sliding his throat, ensuring Aerys wouldn’t be “reborn as a dragon” as the Mad King had hoped—thus becoming the Kingslayer, an oath breaker, a man without honor—all because Aerys had ordered Jaime to kill his own father and to bring him his head. What no one else knew until this day was that Aerys had also planned to burn the whole of King’s Landing by using secret stashes of wildfire hidden away all over the capital by his pyromancer.

And this was how Lord Eddard Stark had found him. Standing over the body of the man Jaime had sworn to protect whilst his sword glistened wet and red from the Mad King’s crimson blood, a red smile upon the old mad man’s throat.

 _Ned Stark judged me guilty from that moment. The_ honorable _Lord Eddard Stark would never have listened to my side of the story_ , he thought bitterly before sudden anger welled in him. _By what right does the wolf judge the lion? He had no right to judge me._ Then he thought on how honor had served Ned Stark. _Honor killed him when Joff had his head parted from his neck._ And Jaime Lannister, the _Kingslayer_ was still here, still alive.

And he was desperately in love with a ghost’s eldest daughter.

Jaime blinked hard when he suddenly realized that Sansa Stark was standing in front of him in complete silence, her soft hands playing with her dress, smoothing it down. _How did she even get in here?_ Jaime had been so deep in thought he had not heard the heavy oaken door open nor her entering his solar. But he knew from that gesture alone that she was nervous. Sansa always smoothed invisible creases over her dress when she was.

He also thought she looked stunningly beautiful in that new blue lambswool dress of hers, with her long auburn locks falling softly in a fiery cascade down her back and over her chest.

“Sansa,” he said and smiled sadly at her. Jaime stood up and made his way towards her, going around his work table. “You are finally out of your bedchamber. I was worried about you.”

He noticed the look of sadness on her face and sat on the edge of his work table, staring at her, looking at her silently. Her features looked drawn and tired and her beautiful heart-shaped face was terribly pale with dark shadows dancing under her eyes.

His heart clenched painfully. He already knew what she was here to tell him. He knew about her and Sandor. He had seen her leaving Joffrey’s former guard dog’s room early the previous morn when he had gone to see her, hoping they could break their fast together. Jaime had stayed up all night in his solar working, answering letters, thinking.

After her maid Jeyne had come to see him, telling him how Sansa had been crying and had refused to rise from bed and eat, he had still gone to her bedchamber because fuck him into all the seven hells, he _still_ loved her. Despite her betrayal. _Like Cersei betrayed me_ . . . And Sansa had begged of him not to ask of her what was wrong.

Even as Jaime had asked Sansa if she was with child or if she had lost another babe or even if it was Clegane, he already knew. But he wanted to give her the chance to _tell_ him. Cersei had lied to him, he wanted to know if Sansa would lie to him too. Jaime wasn’t sure why he was willing to give Sansa a chance. Perhaps it was because he knew she would not keep this hidden from him? That she was better than Cersei? Jaime knew he had to believe that she was. _She’s not better, she fucked another man,_ a little voice in his head was saying. He brushed it aside but it was still there, lingering at the back of his mind like a dark shadow.

Yet . . . yet, he felt his love for Sansa was so strong he was willing to give her a chance. _Still, I need to believe that she is different. She is so young . . . what if Clegane has forced himself upon her?_ He was now bristling with rage at the thought. But Sansa had defended him earlier, and he knew that Sandor, whatever his faults and his rough character and demeanour, was in love with her. He would never force himself upon the girl. _Sandor is no Gregor,_ Jaime thought.The younger Clegane would blindly obey the orders of his master like the good dog he’d been but Jaime knew he was no rapist.

Jaime Lannister, the man without honor, the oath breaker, the _Kingslayer_ , waited for Sansa Stark to answer him, and he saw in her beautiful Tully-blue eyes that she was going to tell him. He was ready, though his heart was heavy and already breaking into a million tiny pieces.

He saw her open her beautiful lips when his squire Podrick rushed into his solar with Sandor’s own squire Benjen on his heels, a lanky youth if he ever saw one, interrupting them. Jaime was irate. “Get out,” he shouted, fury thick in his tone.

“Forgive me my lord,” Podrick said quickly, a deep crimson blush creeping over his entire face and going to his ears. “A spy was caught trying to make his way inside the castle.”

“Fucking hells,” Jaime swore loudly. He’d never wanted to wring his squire’s neck more than he did right this moment. He knew Sansa was about to tell him the truth. And even if they’d just been interrupted, the knowledge that she had been poised to tell him what had happened—when his own twin had kept on lying to him—made a feeling of relief wash over him.

In Pod’s wake two red cloaks followed into the room with a shackled man standing between them. Following in the prisoner’s wake was Sandor Clegane who looked murderously at the grizzled man’s back.

Jaime felt an icy cold chill creep up his spine at the sight of the Hound. He wanted to run his sword through Sandor Clegane so badly it was almost overpowering him. However, he managed to remain as calm as he possibly be could, mustering a control over him he did not even know he possessed.

Jaime swore loudly again when he took closer notice of the tall, older man who was grey of beard and of hair that was standing in shackles between the two Lannister soldiers and realized who he was.

Looking over the man who was struggling and swearing before staring silently and intently at Sansa when he took notice of her, Jaime said, “Well, if it isn’t the Blackfish himself. Ser Brynden Tully.” Jaime smirked, “Welcome to Casterly Rock.”

*****

Jaime looked icily at Sansa’s great-uncle before he spoke. “I assume you are here for the Lady Sansa,” he started. “Tell me Ser Brynden, why come here as a thief in the night, why not reveal yourself openly? I did write to you, ser, asking for your help concerning the lady here.”

Ser Brynden looked him over with an expression of pure contempt over his countenance. “I did not know if your letter was truthful or if it was a trap, _Kingslayer_.”

Jaime didn’t even react to the Blackfish’s open handed insult. “Surely you would have heard that I had taken the lady to Casterly Rock for her own protection.”

“Her own protection?” Ser Brynden snorted at Jaime. “Rather say that my great-niece is here as your prisoner, ser.”

The Blackfish could go to all the seven hells, Jaime was bristling again but kept his temper in check and nodded towards Sansa who had become even paler, if that was even possible.

“Sansa will tell you that she is not my prisoner and is quite free to do as she pleases,” he said, putting a particular emphasis on the last words. Jaime smiled sourly at Ser Brynden.

This one turned towards Sansa. “Does he have the truth of it child? Are you no longer his prisoner?”

Jaime stared at Sansa. She licked her parted lips and looked intently at her great-uncle, her mother’s uncle. “Ser- Ser Jaime tells it true. I am no prisoner to the Lannisters, not anymore.” He heard the hesitation in her voice. _She does not believe she is free_ , Jaime thought, taken aback. _She still does not trust me, even after all we have been through together, even after we’ve said that we loved each other._ The realization was a painful one, and Jaime felt as if someone has slapped him across the jaw with a steel gauntlet. _No wonder, she was so ill treated by my family, by Joff. The constant abuse, the beatings, the rapes. Her wounds are deeper than the marks on her young body._

Sandor sniggered at Sansa’s back. Her sworn shield had made his way to her side as soon as he had entered the room. _He is doing what he must; he is there to protect her, even from me._

Ser Brynden was looking over his niece with his brows furrowed. Then he slowly addressed Jaime. “Then if she is no longer your prisoner, I will take my great-niece back to Riverrun with me, ser.”

“No!” Sansa blurted out. She suddenly looked like a frightened animal that was afraid to be let out of its gilded cage.

Jaime’s head shot towards her. _Why does she not want to leave? She would be free of me and would be able to go with Sandor if that is what she wants._

He saw her flush. _Does Sansa still love me?_ He wondered. “Why would you not go with Ser Brynden, Sansa?” he asked her, hope renewing like a blossom in his chest despite himself.

“I don’t . . . I don’t want to leave you,” Sansa said, blushing as she looked him deep in the eyes.

Jaime stared at her hard while he saw Sandor flinch at her back, Joffrey’s former guard dog’s jaw clenching hard. Still, the Hound said nothing, staring at her back in thoughtful silence first before his gaze found an invisible point in front of him to stare at.

He looked at her hard, then at the Hound, then back at her again.

“Leave us,” Jaime shouted a command at the red cloaks. “Take Ser Brynden with you, give him a bedchamber but post sentries at his door. He is not to leave under any circumstance.” Then he looked at Podrick. “You too Pod, but wait outside the door.”

The red cloaks nodded and escorted Ser Brynden out of Jaime’s solar while Podrick and Benjen followed, shutting the heavy oaken door behind them.

Sansa was now looking at her feet while her hands were slowly brushing invisible things over her heavy skirts while Sandor was still glowering at an invisible point in front of him.

Long, painful minutes of silence stretched between the three of them.

Then Jaime broke it.

“I know.” He simply said.

Sansa let out a strangled sob. He saw her eyes start to water while Sandor stared at him hard, his hand going to the pommel of his sword. _He’ll protect her no matter what._

“There is no need to draw your sword Clegane,” Jaime said, sighing. He was so weary. Weary of it all. Losing Cersei; losing his hand; losing his father and his little shit of a son; and perhaps even losing the girl he _still_ loved. Despite it all.

Jaime looked at the two people standing in front of him. He looked at Sansa who was crying silently, with tears softly rolling down her rosy cheeks, and at the tall scarred man at her back who was bristling with rage whilst still looking at that invisible point.

 _Am I really about to say this?_ Jaime thought, actually surprised at himself. He had thought this through while he had stayed awake all last night because he couldn’t possibly have gone to sleep.

“I have a proposal to make.”

Both Sansa and Sandor stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “Sansa . . .” he started while she looked at him with pain etched across her beautiful features. “I should have told you this before, actually.”

Jaime hesitated for one more second, the time of a single heartbeat, before continuing. “If you agree, I will make you my wife. This way, we can end the fighting between Lannisters, Baratheons and the Starks; between the lions, the stags and the wolves; between the North and King’s Landing and Casterly Rock; between Winterfell and the crown.”

Sansa looked at him, shocked. So was Sandor who glowered so hard at him, Jaime almost felt the Hound burn a bloody hole right through him.

“You know, I’ve always wondered. How do you even do that Sandor? Truly you have mastered the art of the glare,” Jaime couldn’t help saying while Joff’s former dog also gave him a sneer.

“Fuck you Jaime,” Sandor spat at him. The Hound was angry, and for one brief moment, Jaime truly feared for his life. He knew Clegane could kill him as easily as one could swat a pesky fly. Especially since his sword hand was gone. “You just shut your mouth—”

Another sigh from Jaime. “Yes . . . perhaps I should shut up Sandor. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Though honestly, I _have_ thought this through.”

“Why . . . why would you want to marry me? Is it to punish me?” Sansa said, panic thick in her voice. She looked so much like a frightened deer . . . _no, a frightened wolf. The wolf is afraid of the lion, but the hound is not._

He felt his gaze soften. _She was about to tell me,_ he reminded himself. _She would have told me true, unlike Cersei. But she did betray you, like your twin. Then why are you forgiving her,_ Lion _? Because you really are in love with the Stark girl and would rather share her with the dog than lose her. You are such a bloody fool._

“I don’t want to punish you, Sansa. But . . . I would rather share you than lose you.” Because he knew he would lose her otherwise, did he not? She would leave with her great-uncle and her sworn shield; leave him behind at the Rock, would she not?

Sandor barked out a laugh. “ _Share_ her? What the fuck do you mean, Jaime.”

“I mean, Sandor, I would marry Sansa and share her bed while allowing you to keep on pleasuring my wife when she wishes it so,” Jaime said dryly. There. He had _said_ it.

Both Sansa and Sandor stared at him, eyes round as saucers, mouths agape. Jaime felt uncontrollable laughter slowly rise within his chest, threatening to spill out of his gullet like a cup of wine too full. _I am madder than Cersei!_ He thought.

Sansa’s face had become ashen white before she turned beet red. Almost instantly, her tone became icy, that of a proper Queen in the North. “And what do I have to say to this, pray tell, ser?” She asked. “Should I just marry you right now and use Sandor as my lover like you have so very readily decided for me?”

“Isn’t this what you really want, Sansa? To have both the Lion _and_ the Hound?”

“How dare you! You said I was no longer your prisoner. Why do you want to marry me if you’re to share me? Why would I marry you?”

“Because it makes sense politically Sansa. You need me and the westerlands to beat the Boltons, the Greyjoys, the—”

“I have the might of Riverrun,” she interrupted him dryly.

“No. You have your great-uncle the Blackfish who I fear is quite alone and _my prisoner_. Else he’d have a small army of Tully men with him and would not have needed secrecy. You do not have the might of Riverrun.”

Sansa only stared at him. “And why would my uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, not fight for me?”

“Because Edmure’s new pretty young wife Roslin Frey’s family has entered into an alliance with the Boltons and by extension my own family. Edmure is incompetent besides. Why do you think your brother Robb and your lady mother were murdered at the Twins? It was Bolton and my father’s doing,” Jaime finished. He saw Sansa flinch and gasp and then tears welled into her eyes again while her hand went to her mouth. For one brief moment, Jaime felt like a complete and utter bastard. Bloody hells! Why did Sansa Stark give rise to such passions in him?

Sandor scowled and growled at him. “Don’t you fucking dare hurt her Jaime. The little bird doesn’t need to hear that from you.”

 _Little bird, he keeps calling her little bird_. Jaime realized he never had a pet name for Sansa. She was simply Sansa to him.

Jaime sighed deeply. He did not like what his father had done, but there was nothing for him to do. He had been away when all this happened. Jaime hated how the Freys had gone about breaking all oaths of hospitality to kill the Young Wolf, his mother the Lady Catelyn, and all the Stark men present at Edmure’s _wedding_. The thought that they had decapitated Robb Stark to sew in his dead direwolf’s head on instead was completely revolting to him, as was everything that took place at the Twins.

“Then why did you leave my uncle Edmure as Lord of Riverrun if he is so incompetent as you put it?” Sansa asked incredulous. Her voice had become high-pitched.

“I made the decision to re-install Edmure as Lord of Riverrun by having him swear an oath of fealty to my family—much against my father’s wishes if truth be told. He’d have him shipped here to the Rock, along with his pretty young wife. Though only _after_ she had given birth to their child.”

“Why?”

“The reason is simple. It is because my family needed the alliance with Lord Bolton and the Freys against Stannis Baratheon in the north; Stannis who has allied himself with the Karstarks and the Umbers and is hopeful to make an alliance with the Manderlys in White Harbour as well.”

Sansa stood quiet with her eyes now downcast and Jaime looked at her intently. He was still waiting for her to give answer to his proposal. At her back, he could see Sandor was seething in red hot anger, his large hand clenching and unclenching over the pommel of that long sword of his. _A sword like Dawn, Ser Arthur Dayne’s legendary blade_.

“What do you say Sansa?” He asked her gently.

“I-I . . .” Sansa only managed to say as her face and chest were flushed red in what Jaime thought was anger. A sob threatened to escape her throat as she looked at him, eyes red-rimmed with shed and unshed tears. He saw her luscious red lips quiver, her tight little fists clenched at her side, her knuckles white.

“Do I truly have a choice Jaime?” She asked him desperately. Sansa’s eyes were intent on him. On what he was going to say, and how he would say it.

“Yes Sansa. If you wish to leave Casterly Rock, then you are free to do so; I will let you go with Ser Brynden. You can be with your family again if that is what you want.”

Sansa stood silent for some long moments while Jaime’s heart was hammering in his chest. _Fuck me into all the seven hells but I am afraid that she will leave_. _I, Jaime Lannister, afraid that Ned Stark’s daughter will reject me. I’m the Golden Lion of Lannister, the pride of the family._ Jaime wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry.

Seconds turned into minutes, which in turn felt like an eternity to Jaime. Then, finally, Sansa answered him in a whisper with four little words.

“I will marry you.”


	17. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor struggles with Jaime's stunning decisions concerning Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Sandor's struggles in this chapter, I too had a bit of a struggle with it. Please remember the story is not Beta'd and English is my second language. All my apologies for grammar and/or spelling mistakes in the text. I do try my best.

**Sandor**

Sandor Clegane parried Jaime’s upward cut without flinching. The two men were back in the Stone Garden to resume Jaime’s swordfight training; that he’d even asked Sandor to continue in this endeavor was beyond him. He just couldn’t bloody well understand why the fucking Kingslayer would still want to train with him again after all that had happened with the little bird.

But keep on training they did.

Right now, he could see that Jaime’s face had turned red as much in exertion as it was in anger. Sandor knew it was all aimed his way but did not care on whit about that. Only thing he ever cared about in his entire sodding life was Sansa Stark, and right now, the little bird wasn’t happy—and _that_ wasn’t flying with him.

After the fucking Lion had offered marriage to her and had shocked them further with Jaime’s admission that he was willing to share Sansa with Sandor, she had descended into complete misery, not leaving her room and crying most of the time. Sandor could often hear her sob as he stood guard in the hall next to her bedchamber door whilst he knew he could do nothing to alleviate her pain, feeling as helpless as one of those small, scrawny kittens Joff’s little brother Tommen— _King_ Tommen—loved so much. Sandor himself had been so utterly shocked that Jaime had even proposed that they share the little bird’s bed he had felt a cold seething rage take hold of him. He’d never in his life wanted to strangle the Kingslayer as much as he wanted to do so now.

Sansa had agreed to the union—stunning Sandor speechless while his heart broke (truth be told it was fucking killing him)—but as soon as she had said yes to Jaime, the little bird had straightened her shoulders and turned on her heels, leaving the solar in a flurry of skirts, with Sandor following sullenly at her back until she had entered her bedchamber and closed the door shut in his face. He’d try talking to her but Sansa had completely shut him down.

He knew Sansa was pondering what an alliance with House Lannister would bring; even though they had been responsible for the death of most of her family as well as the rapes, numerous beatings, and the constant humiliations she had to endure at Joffrey’s hands. Sandor’s jaw clenched hard at the thought, his teeth grinding together, the skin over his temples pulling. If the little bird wanted to retake the north and Winterfell, she would definitely need strong allies and the support of a strong House. The Lannisters weren’t the great House they once were, mostly because of Lord Tywin’s death; the Imp’s apparent involvement in the murder of both his father and nephew King Joffrey; Cersei’s arrest on suspicion of betrayal, as well as some other shit Sandor didn’t care one whit about.

All he cared about was her. The girl. Sansa Stark.

Sandor sidestepped Jaime’s forward thrust with a grunt, swinging his sword down, but Jaime managed to hold on to his dulled training blade. The clash of steel on steel rang throughout the Stone Garden like a most precious song that sung oh-so-sweetly in Sandor’s ears. But his blasted leg was hurting him like all the seven hells again, so he wasn’t as quick as he usually was. _Bloody limp_ , he thought. _Bloody wound._

 “Why are you so unhappy Sandor,” Jaime said coldly, his breath coming in short gasps as he raised his sword to block Sandor’s downward swing. He grunted. “Didn’t you get what your heart yearned for? If I recall correctly, I gave you permission to fuck my wife whenever she requires and desires it of you.”

Sandor savagely swung his sword downward once more. His blow was so hard, as he put all his strength and weight into it, the Kingslayer stumbled and fell to the ground on one knee with a loud groan. The clash of sword upon sword vibrated through Sandor’s entire right arm and up to his shoulder, making him wince.

“I knew you for a sister-fucker, Jaime,” Sandor spat at the sodding Lion. “But what you did to the little bird just now is unforgivable. Also, Sansa’s not yet your wife, so stop talking about her as if she was.”

Jaime Lannister looked up at him with a tight smile over his lips. His grey-blue eyes had turned icy cold. His left hand was closed into a tight fist and Sandor could see Jaime clenching and unclenching  it repeatedly over his thigh in anger, his knuckles white.

“Unforgivable?” Jaime snorted while Sandor bristled with rage. “If I recall correctly, Clegane, you and Sansa are the ones who _fucked_ behind my back. After I’d told you that I planned to marry Ned Stark’s daughter.”

The Hound scowled at Jaime and growled, “She was not herself!”

“Ah. Then you admit she did not want to fuck you and that you took advantage of her?” Jaime said through gritted teeth as he looked up at Sandor. He was smirking and his tone was as cold as ice; dripping, even. It was sharp and cutting like a well-edged sword. Sandor ignored it.

“No, that’s not what I’m say—”

Jaime shouldered him roughly in the stomach on his way up, knocking the wind out of Sandor and sending the both of them sprawling roughly onto the cold stone floor.

“You fucking bastard.” Jaime snarled as he started pounding at Sandor with his left fist while he straddled him. The Kingslayer had gotten stronger, with an increased command of his left limb that would have made Sandor strangely proud any other day. 

“You knew I loved Sansa,” Jaime hissed, his tone full of hatred and contempt. “You knew she loved me. Yet you still took her! You’ve no honor Clegane!”

Sandor laughed a raspy, cruel laugh. “Honor? Who are you to speak of honor Jaime! You’re the one fucked your sister and had three bawling babes brought to the world. You fathered that little shithead of a king who hurt the little bird. Who raped and beat her repeatedly. Have you seen the scars on her body Kingslayer? Have you? Where was _honor_ then?”

“Yes, I have. And it wasn’t me, Clegane, so dump your shit at another’s door.” Jaime hit him again across the mouth. Sandor could taste the tangy, coppery taste of blood mixing with his saliva. The blow had stung and he could feel a shooting pain where Jaime’s closed fist had connected with his mouth.

“And stop calling her that,” Jaime barked. He hit Sandor again across the cheek, making his head snap sideways sharply.

Sandor laughed again. “What? Stop calling her _little bird_? Why? What’s it to you? I can call her whatever I like.” His voice was now dripping with venom.

“She’s. Not. Yours,” Jaime spat, his golden face now only a few inches away from his own scarred one. Sandor could smell his breath on him. A smell Sandor was all too familiar with. _Wine. Fuck, is Jaime drunk?_ Jaime’s left hand had grabbed at Sandor’s jerkin while his right forearm was pressing heavily against his neck. _Fuck, Jaime’s stronger than I thought._

Sandor roared and pushed Jaime back with one hard shove. This one stumbled backwards but quick as a snake was back on top of Sandor again, hitting him in turn with his left fist and his stump. He saw pain flash across the Lion’s face as he grimaced and hissed.

Sandor had had enough. He grabbed Jaime by the throat to bodily lift him off of him and then off the ground as he slowly rose to his feet. The Kingslayer was a tall, strong man but Sandor was taller, broader, _stronger_.

Jaime started struggling and choking under Sandor’s stranglehold when this one brought his knee up against his fresh thigh wound.

Sandor saw white hot pain flash behind his eyelids and reeled, dropping Jaime abruptly to the ground with a grunt and a hiss of pain. The sheer agony he now felt was excruciating. The pain shot from the wound in his thigh to the rest of his body, like tendrils of lightening shooting all over him. It was hurting something fierce, and Sandor felt sudden bile rise up his gullet. Without warning, he heaved the content of his stomach to the ground. Sandor felt a strange smug satisfaction when he vomited right at Jaime’s feet.

*****

Sandor made his slow way back to his bedchamber limping heavily on his bad leg.

 _Fucking Jaime Lannister_ , he thought darkly. The man had kept on pounding at his wound while they’d been fighting it out over the little bird in the Stone Garden. Sandor could feel that blood was now seeping freely through his woolen breeches; he could feel the sticky wetness clinging uncomfortably to his thigh.

The wound had not been too grave when he got stabbed by that fucking rat swine in Lannisport—it had, surprisingly enough, been a clean knife wound; even though the man had embedded his thrice-damned knife in the gnarly wound Sandor had suffered many months past at the Inn at the Crossroads. But now it was burning and throbbing like all the seven buggering hells. _Shit. I’m going to need to see the bloody maester_.

Sandor made it to his room feeling slightly light headed. He ran his tongue over his swollen lower lip, where Jaime had punched him, and winced. As soon as he entered his chambers, he sat himself heavily on the soft feather bed with a loud groan. He reached for the table where a flagon was filled with sweet wine and drunk directly from it, ignoring the cup that sat beside it. Perfect. Sandor had never needed to drink himself into oblivion as much as he did just now. Oh, he had drunk himself into a stupor a few times before in his life. Back when he had been Joff’s guard dog in King’s Landing he had been in the habit of getting drunk on his days off, or during feasts; but even more so after he’d left the little bastard king and the little bird behind, before he found himself on the Quiet Isle. But not since he’d left it.

Sandor took another swig of the blessed liquid (Arbor Gold, not his favorite but better than the piss he was used to drink in less-than-reputable-whorehouses). Then, putting it back down again, he slowly divested himself of his clothes. When it was time to remove his breeches and smallclothes he did so carefully, all the while grimacing in pain. They were soaked through in his blood and Sandor bunched them up together and tossed them into the burning fireplace. They hissed and coiled upon themselves, black smoke twirling up and up and strangely looking like a dragon taking flight as they were consumed by the flames. Sandor stared, for one painful moment transported back to that fateful day when his monster of a brother had shoved his face into the burning brazier. _All for a stupid toy knight Gregor did not even want._

Sandor blinked hard as he brushed these painful memories aside and drank deeply from the flagon again. He could feel the heat of the wine flowing through his entire body and setting the blood in his veins on fire as it snaked its way inward.

Depositing the flagon of wine back on the table, Sandor took a deep breath and looked closely at his wound. It was opened and blood was trickling heavily from it; it looked nasty and gnarly and hurt like fuck when Sandor poked at it. Then he strode painfully to the garderobe and opened the doors. There, on a tablet besides the privy, was a small washbasin filled with fresh water. Dipping a clean cloth into the cool liquid, he proceeded to clean the wound as best he could.

Sandor’s tolerance threshold for pain was high, but the flow of blood was too important for him to ignore and it made him light-headed and dizzy as fuck. _That wound needs to be sewn shut_ , Sandor thought. Returning slowly and painfully to the small table beside his bed, and picking up the flagon of wine again, he spilled some of it over his wound to clean it up and try to kill the looming infection: he did not want a repeat of the wound that had near killed him when he’d been with the little she-wolf bitch, Arya Stark.

 _I need to let the little bird know about her cunt of a sister._ Sandor had often wanted to talk of Arya to Sansa, but he never seemed to find the appropriate time for it.

Sandor emptied the rest of the wine in deep swallows before he shouted for his squire. “Boy, get your scrawny ass in here!” He ripped one of the cloths he had carried back with him and tied it tightly over his wound.

Benjen showed up in his bedchamber not a minute later, panting hard as if he’d been running. He was carrying a messy tray of food.

“What the fuck you been up to?” Sandor growled before he gave him a murderous look.

The boy looked crestfallen for a second before he answered almost timidly, “I was down at the kitchens for your supper and on my way here when I heard you callin’ down the hall m’lord.”

Sandor glowered at Benjen. What fresh hell was this now? “Told you I’m no fucking lord, _boy_. So you better remember that if you want to remain my bloody squire. Go get me the maester and hurry.” Sandor stared at the boy, ogling him while Benjen’s eyes were opened round and wide as saucers when this one noticed the blood covering his master’s thigh . . . and the fact that he was naked as his nameday.

After clearing his throat, Benjen took on a solemn look, straightened, and answered “Yes m’lord.”

For one second Sandor scowled so hard at the kid the boy actually shrank back. Then he swallowed hard and quickly put the tray of food on the floor and ran out into the hall.

Sandor grunted in pain again as he shifted himself onto the soft feather mattress before he laid on his back, his head now resting over the pillows. Then he closed his eyes for one second, _just one second, to rest_ , Sandor thought, before passing out cold on his bed.

*****

Next he knew, Sandor noticed he was tucked neatly beneath the coverlets and furs covering his bed. He was also wearing a fresh shift and some clean smallclothes. A damp cloth was lying wet and heavy over his brow and his bedchamber was almost dark. A small fire was still roaring merrily in the fireplace, though, casting dancing light and shadows on the walls of his bedchamber.

Sandor was racked with debilitating chills. _Not again_ , he thought. He swore inwardly at all the seven buggering gods into all the seven bleeding hells; even to those old gods with them freakish weirwood trees that had _faces_ carved into their pale, bone-white trunks the little bird often prayed to. They always made Sandor’s skin crawl.

The last time he had been that ill was when the Elder Brother had found him dying by the bloody Trident. Yes, the holy man’s fabled healing hands had helped him heal (along with many a poultice, more than one disgusting draughts, and an obscenely considerable amount of milk of the poppy) but not before Sandor went through the most painful recovery of his long life as a soldier, a warrior, a killer.

He slowly turned his head to the left and saw that beside him was Maester Aurane who was slumped into an armchair, dozing off soundly by his side. The kindly man strangely reminded Sandor of the Elder Brother, though the two men looked physically nothing alike. But there was a kindness in their eyes that Sandor recognized.

“So not dead,” Sandor rasped to himself. His mouth felt thick and parched and he had a hard time wrapping his tongue around his words.

“No,” the maester answered back with a chuckle. He’d obviously not been sleeping as soundly as Sandor had first thought. “The fever should break soon. Your squire Benjen did not want to tell me how your wound got such a pounding, but I can imagine _who_ was the cause. There are whispers at Casterly Rock one can sometimes hear. I sterilized the wound and poured some boiled wine over it before stitching up the ripped flesh. You should stay off your leg for a few days in order to let it heal properly.”

“No question of this,” Sandor mumbled groggily. “I’m Sansa Stark’s sworn shield. It’s my duty to protect her. Just wrap the wound tight, bring me wine and I’ll go do my duty by her.”

Sandor tried sitting up but his head was swimming like a ship caught in a maelstrom. _Not good_ , he thought as he roughly laid himself back down onto the soft fluffy pillows with a pained groan.

“I have given you some dream wine,” Maester Aurane said. “You should be off your feet for a few days,” he repeated decidedly.

“A few days? Have you lost your bloody mind?” Sandor scowled at the old man sitting by his bed. “I’m perfectly fine, I said. Nothing a little wine can’t cure.”

Maester Aurane sighed. “Yes, she said you’d be difficult.”

Sandor stared at the man. _She_ said? Was Sansa here?

As if he could read his mind, Maester Aurane said “the Lady Sansa has been here to see to you. She has sat with you for a few hours when you were at your most delirious but I’ve sent her back to her bedchamber to rest, though she did not want to leave your side. I had to order her out of your chambers and have Benjen escort her to her rooms,” he smiled thinly.

Sandor sat upright on the bed again, his head still spinning dangerously. There were no chances in all the seven hells that he was going to lie in this soft feather bed a moment longer. _This bed is for some puffed up little lord, not a man like me_ , he mused darkly. He tossed the coverlets and furs aside, swinging his massive legs over the side of the bed. Sandor rised slowly, all the while steadying himself against the bed frame amidst strong cries of protest from Maester Aurane. Sandor grimaced and swayed slightly on his feet when he felt pins and needles in his calves. “How long have I been lying in bed?” He asked.

“Not long, a day and a night, but you should not be up on your feet, Sandor.”

 _That’s new_ , _this maester calling me by my first name,_ Sandor thought as he glared hard at the older, kindly man who had stood up when Sandor had risen to his feet, obviously wanting to help him. Another murderous glance from Sandor told the maester that he’d best not try.

“I told you, _maester_ , I’m not staying in bed and I’m not leaving the little bird without a competent sworn shield by her side. As I said, wrap the wound tightly and no dream wine. Regular wine will do. Sour red, preferably. I need most of my wits about me,” he snarled.

Maester Aurane stared at him, the old man’s gaze boring right through Sandor. Sighing loudly, the maester finally acquiesced.

*****

Sandor knocked lightly on Sansa’s bedchamber door, all the while butterflies were fluttering madly in his guts. _Why the fuck am I so nervous? It’s only the little bird after all._ Then he thought _, she came to my bedside . . ._

A tired voice answered him and bid him enter and Sandor slowly opened the heavy oaken door to her room.

Sansa was sitting at her looking glass, looking more beautiful than he’d ever seen her before while her maid Jeyne was brushing and styling the little bird’s hair in the northern style she favored so much. Her flaming hair was so long it fell to the small of her back. She was wearing a new silk dress he had never seen before; it was the shade of a pink sky lighted by a sunset sun.

“Sandor, you are up!” she said in that sweet voice of hers whilst she turned on the chair toward him. “You should be resting! Your wound—”

“—is a trifle, Sansa. No need to worry. I am strong enough to protect and guard you, as befits my station as your sworn shield,” Sandor said a bit gruffly. Why was she making him so bloody nervous?

“But you had a fever,” she continued, undeterred. “Surely it would be best if you were back in bed!” He saw Sansa flush a deep crimson, the color creeping up her chest and over her face, even going to the tip of her ears. _Is the little bird embarrassed to think of me in bed?_

Sandor shifted uneasily on his feet, trying to be careful of putting his weight on his good leg, his right hand resting lightly on the pommel of Trueheart. “I . . . understood you have been by my side, little bird,” he looked at her intently and when she only stared back he continued. “Why would you do that? You know Jaime must have hated it . . . you being in my chambers.”

“I am a free woman to do as I please am I not?” Sansa said, her voice suddenly icy cold. Then her gaze softened as she looked at him. “Jeyne, please leave us,” she asked her handmaid.

The little mousy thing did a curtsy and left them with a “m’lady.” She barely glanced Sandor’s way and he knew she was afraid of him. _They’re all afraid of me, except Sansa . . . and Jaime._

Sansa pushed against the ornate small table of her looking glass where her hairbrush and combs and hair pins were displayed neatly, and stood up slowly. She strode toward Sandor, her beautiful, clear blue eyes never leaving his. For a moment Sandor felt as if there was no one else in the Seven Kingdoms but them.

As he gazed into her beautiful face, staring at her long supple neck—a neck he felt the sudden urge to press his lips against—Sandor thought how Sansa still looked sad, but there was also a new-found dignity over her countenance he had never seen before. _The little bird truly looks like her brother’s rightful heir: the sodding Queen in the bloody North_.

“I am sorry Sandor,” she started hesitantly. “Everything is my fault.”

“What the fuck you’re talking about Sansa. None of this is your fault.”

“Yes, it is. I should have been stronger . . .  should have resisted what was or rather _is_ happening between us . . .” she blushed for all her worth as she told him this and she lowered her gaze demurely to the ground.

 _Sansa is always the proper little lady. So courteous._ Sandor looked away from her for a heartbeat, not really knowing what to say to that.

Sansa walked toward Sandor and stood but a few feet from him. She looked at him almost hesitantly, as if she was expecting _something_ from him. She was so tall and lean and so beautiful with her heart-shaped face and her clear Tully-blue eyes she took his breath away. _She always takes my breath away_ , Sandor had to grudgingly admit to himself. _She makes me want to be a better man._ Being a better man could kill you in Westeros. _Look at Ned Stark. The man had been straight as an arrow and honest to a fault and what good did it do him? It got him killed that’s what._

Sandor did not know what to say to her or how to react: _should I take the little bird in my arms? Gods! I just want to kiss her and take her there, on the floor, her legs spread wide for me while I pound into her until she screams in ecstasy_. His heart was hammering in his chest and he felt his cock stir in his breeches. When she reached to take his hand, he felt a jolt of lightening course through his entire body as her fingers brushed over his. In that instant he saw the look across her face had become troubled and she worried at her lower lip. And then he _felt_ just how nervous and sad she was.

“I will be joining Jaime for supper,” she told him simply. “We have much to talk about.”

Sandor stared at her.“Will you really go through with this little bird?” he growled. “Do you truly want to marry the bloody Lion of Lannister?” His voice sounded desperate and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Sandor,” she started as her eyes searched his. “I need to marry Jaime if I ever hope to reclaim the north and Winterfell. But . . . I cannot let him become Lord of Winterfell. So this will be my condition. If I marry him, he has to relinquish all rights as the Warden of the North. He can only be my consort and not rule actively . . . but I guess in the end Winterfell will fall into the hands of the Lannisters after all if I were to have a son with Jaime. He would become Lord of Winterfell and Casterly Rock, Warden of the North and of the West. Perhaps . . . perhaps peace can be achieved this way. I could oust Lord Roose Bolton and his bastard son out, and if my great-uncle the Blackfish can even convince my uncle Edmure to lend me support then perhaps I can reclaim my family home,” Sansa added in a whisper.

As she told him this, revealing her plan and talking about a future that seemingly did not include him, she held on to Sandor’s hand, her delicate face upturned toward his, her eyes looking at him searchingly. Sandor glanced down and saw how small Sansa’s soft hand was in his own massive calloused one.

Sandor decided he had to speak his mind.

“But what about love Sansa. Do you truly still love Jaime? Was that what you were going to tell him when you went to see him before the buggering fish interrupted you? I need to know what you intend to do about this little bird. I don’t know if I want, or even _can_ , share you with the fucking Lion,” He gave a pause. “Do you even want to _share_ us Sansa?” Sandor’s eyes were looking pleadingly into her own. He needed to know what _she_ wanted. Sandor wasn’t sure if he could share the little bird’s bed with the Lion: share her sweet cunt and love with another man, least of all _him_ , Jaime. Jaime, who alone had been kind to him when Sandor had first come to Casterly Rock when he was barely twelve years of age. _I’m a right bastard_ , he thought sullenly.

“Yes . . .” she whispered as she looked at him intently with tears welling into her eyes. They seemed even more blue somehow and Sandor felt himself drown in them. Then the blow came. “I still love Jaime.”

Sandor held his breath for one instant. Not the answer he truly wanted to hear but he did ask . . . Then the little bird continued. “But I also believe that I love you too.” She lowered her eyes again, looking fretfully at her feet while Sandor hissed in his breath.

 _The little bird loves me_ . . . He cleared his throat and felt his heart unexpectedly swell in his chest at her admission. But she also loves Jaime. _Fuck_. This whole thing was all fucked up.

“I . . . there is something else I must tell you Sandor,” she added in a murmur. “Maester Aurane says I am a warg, a skinchanger. That I can . . . enter an animal—or a person’s—consciousness and take over their bodies. But . . . but that is not what happened with you, at least I don’t think so. And that- that would explain why we often dream the same things, why I feel so connected to you and why . . . why I came to you that night and we made love . . .” She hesitated and knit her eyebrows together, as if she were thinking through the next words that were about to spill from her luscious lips. “But I’ve really, truly wanted you for so long now Sandor . . .” her voice trailed off but Sandor saw her blush prettily, a deep red covering her chest and face once more.

 _Sansa always did everything prettily,_ Sandor mused. _Even when she moaned as I moved between her legs._ Fuck him, why did he have to think about that now? It made his cock twitch again and he hoped the little bird wouldn’t notice. Still, Sandor was stunned about her revelation. He did not believe much in magic or greenseers or even wargs for that matter—even though disturbing news from across the Narrow Sea mentioned that dragons lived with the Targaryen bitch. He had also heard about the _magical_ bond the Stark children had had with their direwolves. But Sansa’s own direwolf Lady was long dead now.

“You mean to tell me that we made love because you _slipped_ into me?”

“No! No I don’t think I did, but as I said, maybe that is why I feel so strongly connected to you.”

Sandor stared at her again. His lips were now drawn into a tight line. He could feel the burns on the right side of his face pulling slightly, could feel his temper become hot and he could bloody well feel the painful throbbing in his thigh as well. He ground his teeth together, his jaw clenching painfully.

“Right . . . might be I’m ready to accept all that you’ve told me, little bird, but you still haven’t answered me concerning Jaime’s offer to share you between us. You haven’t said whether or not you mean to take him up on this shit offer.”

Sansa blushed again and finally let go of his hand.

“I . . . I have not thought on this. I- I liked what we did Sandor, I just don’t think it would be fair to either one of you . . . I don’t think that I could _do_ that.”

He could see she was deeply embarrassed, so Sandor did not press the matter further.

Then, not even knowing why or how, he blurted out something he had often foolishly dreamed of, even though he knew it was quite impossible; Sansa Stark being such a high-born lady and him being only a lowly guard dog. “I’d marry you little bird, but I’m only the second son of a minor house who has nothing to offer you but his shield,” Sandor said bitterly. He wanted to be the one to marry the little bird, but he knew perfectly well that such an alliance would never be enough to help Sansa win the north. Not when the might of Casterly Rock was the alternative offered her. And she still loved Jaime . . . and so Sandor had no choice but to resign himself into losing her, did he not? Once again he felt sick to his stomach, bile rising at the back of his throat, though whether it was because his heart was sinking or if it was from the excruciating pain he felt in his thigh he could not tell.

“Oh Sandor,” Sansa whispered. “Please, don’t. Don’t say that.”

“What else would you have me say little bird? I wanted you to know how I feel is all . . . I . . .” he grunted impatiently. Why couldn’t he say it? Buggering hells. Breathing slowly, he finally uttered the words he found so hard to say, but not before he looked shyly away from her for a single heartbeat. “I love you Sansa.”

Then he waited in complete, flaming agony.

Sansa stared at him with tears now rolling softly down her cheeks. He wanted to hold her in his arms, wanted to tell her everything would be alright but he just stood there, powerless. _Paralyzed_.

Sansa only said one word. “Sandor . . .”

With one last look at her, he turned round and left her bedchamber.


	18. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally speaks with her great-uncle the Blackfish before meeting up with Jaime in his chambers for supper. How will Jaime react?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As most of you already know, this story has so far been un-Beta'd. However, I am now looking for someone to help me with grammar and spelling and with story elements. If you are interested in helping, please let me know and thank you all for still reading :-)

**Sansa**

Sansa Stark walked with a decided step towards Ser Brynden Tully’s bedchambers. They were situated inside the Rock’s main keep, not far from her own and a short way from Jaime’s bedchambers. The hour was late, and as she made her way through dimly lit corridors, the sounds of her daintily booted feet echoed into the long hall. _If I wanted to be quiet, I should not have been wearing these leather-calf boots._

She hadn’t had the chance to speak to her great-uncle ever since his unexpected capture and imprisonment now three days past. Jaime had closely kept the Blackfish heavily guarded in one of the keep’s larger rooms, all the while allowing him the courtesies and guest rights due a man of Ser Brynden Tully’s standing—besides his freedom, that was.

Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the very night and was now following her sullenly at her back. Sansa did not dare turn round to look at him. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest but she was unable to tell whether the cause was the anticipation she felt in regards to finally speaking with her great-uncle, or because Sandor was standing so very near her.

He had fallen behind Sansa quiet as a shadow as soon as she had left her chambers, not uttering one single word to her but acting the sworn shield that he was whilst Sansa saw that he was limping on his wounded leg. His mouth was drawn into a tight line and he was obviously in pain; a fine sheen of sweat covered his brow and the scars on the right side of his face seemed even redder than usual. _Sandor would not want me to mention any of this to him_ , so she pretended not to notice all the while she kept shooting him worried, backward glances.

Sandor glowered at her every time she did so.

Sansa also knew Sandor was still upset and hurt. She could _feel_ it. For a man like Sandor Clegane to admit to Sansa that he loved her must have taken everything he had. _He must have been afraid to tell me,_ she thought. _But he is always so brave_. She remembered something Sandor had once told her when she had called him brave after he had saved her from being raped during the Bread Riots: _Brave?_ He’d laughed then, his voice half a snarl. _A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off rats._

Sansa knew the only thing Sandor truly feared was fire. She knew the story of what his monstrous brother had done to him; knew how he had shoved a scared, seven-year old Sandor’s face into a burning brazier because of a stupid wooden toy knight he’d been caught playing with—Gregor’s toy knight—and how his own father had pretended that Sandor’s bedding had caught fire, protecting Gregor. The thought made her sad and she felt her heart break into a million tiny little shards, like glass that is too brittle and breaks under the weight of even the smallest of pebbles. _Everyone has the right and need to feel loved, even Sandor . . . and his own father did not love him back_. That Sandor Clegane, the former Lannister Hound, the fiercest warrior in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms admitted that he loved her made Sansa’s heart soar with even more love for him.

But as she turned her thoughts toward Jaime again; Jaime who had saved her, Jaime who _loved_ her, she knew she felt the exact same way for the Kingslayer as well, confusing her no end.

Sansa had been so deep in thought she almost gasped in surprise when she found herself right at the Blackfish’s bedchamber door. Four red cloaks stood at attention, two to each side, with their hands resting on the pommels of their swords and looking utterly bored. She stopped in front of them and cleared her throat.

“I am here to see Ser Brynden Tully,” she said as authoritatively as she possibly could. _After all, I am to wed Ser Jaime and I shall become the Lady of Casterly Rock._

The red cloaks looked at each other hesitantly before the tallest one replied. “Ser Jaime has ordered us not to let anyone see the Blackfish, my lady.”

“I am not anyone,” Sansa replied evenly, letting the corners of her full lips draw into a tiny little smile. “I am your lord’s betrothed and shall be your Lady soon. Do you wish to disobey me?” Sansa straightened her shoulders, raised her chin up and used the most commanding tone she could muster.

Behind her, Sandor rasped angrily “Do as the lady commands or I’ll fucking shove a hot poker up your bloody arses so far up you’ll taste your own guts. Or maybe _Ser_ Jaime will do so himself when he hears of this.”

Sansa _felt_ rather than heard Sandor’s hand slowly grip the pommel of his own sword, _Trueheart_. She also saw the guards exchange frightened glances. _They’re all afraid of him_ , she thought, _and rightly so, my fierce, beloved non-ser_. Then the tall one spoke again. “My Lady,” and lowered his head in a curt bow.

She nodded at Lannister guards as relief washed over her and turned toward Sandor. “Please wait for me here Sandor, I need speak with my great-uncle alone.” She looked at him deeply, feeling his intent gaze upon her. It made her skin rise in goose prickles and her pulse quickened.

“I’ll be right here with those buggering fools if you need me, little bird.” His voice was a bit hoarse and it felt like a warm caress over her feverish skin. Sansa swallowed hard and gave Sandor a small smile before turning back towards the door as the guards stepped aside to let her pass.

She knocked lightly on the heavy oaken door before slowly pushing it open. The iron hinges creaked loudly as she did so, the sound somehow deafening in her ears. She had butterflies in her tummy though she knew she shouldn’t be so nervous. _He is the only family I have left after all. Him and Uncle Edmure and Aunt Lysa and Jon Snow so far north on the Wall_. Sansa did not know if her wild little sister Arya was still alive. _I must need ask Jaime to search for her_.

Slipping inside her great-uncle’s bedchamber, silent as a wolf, Sansa’s eyes searched for Ser Brynden Tully. Her gaze swiftly swept over the large and messy unmade bed, to a large table where discarded food, a jug of wine and a lone silver cup sat, over an intricately carved high-back chair made of rosewood, to the large garderobe on the wall opposite the bed before finally settling on two large wooden chests.

She found her great-uncle standing in the middle of the bedchamber, looking gruff and tall with a deep scowl over his grey features, his arms folded over his chest as if he’d been expecting her all along. _He is as tall and almost as broad as Sandor . . ._

The Blackfish was no longer wearing the long and intricate leather jerkin over mail she had first seen him in, the one that looked like black fish scales. It was propped up in the corner of the room over a wooden frame. He was now wearing a simple black woolen tunic over black leather breeches and boots. There was an air of nobility about him that reminded Sansa of her dead Lady Mother, and she felt a sudden wave of sadness crash through her before a cold, icy chill crept up her spine when she recalled that what was left of her mother was now a walking, rotting corpse named Lady Stoneheart who was busy roaming the riverlands with the Brotherhood Without Banners, hanging Freys and Lannisters—as well as innocent men, women and children—left and right.

Sansa swallowed her tears— _he will not see me cry. I am the Queen in the North_ —and brushed those painful, disturbing thoughts aside before she leveled her gaze at Ser Brynden.

The Blackfish was staring back at her without saying a word, obviously waiting for her to speak first. Outside, Sansa could hear the incessant rush of the waves into the caves below Casterly Rock.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Ser Brynden . . .”

“Is that how you want to call me, girl? I am your great-uncle after all. We _are_ family.”

Sansa was startled by the abruptness in his tone and blushed. “Uncle, then.”

“Better,” the old man said. Then he added, “Come here child, I want to see you up close.”

She strode toward her uncle as this one observed her keenly. She was aware how her skirts ruffled against the floor rushes as she walked but she stood straight and tall and proud, her hands clasped demurely before her. When she stopped a few feet in front of him she finally looked into his steely grey-blue eyes. _Eyes that look so much like Jaime’s_ . . .

Her great-uncle reached his strong arms and surprised Sansa when he took her gently by the shoulders, eyeing her up and down before he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her head sideways. His fingers were calloused and rough, like a true warrior’s hands. “Yes . . . you have your mother’s looks about you, child. But I can also see much of Eddard Stark in you. So, niece, the Kingslayer told me he had offered marriage to you and that you accepted. Is that the truth of it?”

Sansa’s eyes opened wide in surprise before she slowly answered “Yes . . .”

“Tell me, why would you want to do that? Why would you want to bind yourself to the very House that has brought us nothing but misery and death? To the family of monsters that plotted your father’s public execution as well as your mother and brother’s murders? I was there child. Cutting Freys left and right whilst they and that traitor bastard Roose Bolton murdered Cat and Robb and his wife and their unborn child at the Twins, breaking every guest laws in the eyes of the Seven and the Old Gods.” The Blackfish spat on the floor. “My niece and great-nephew. Your mother and brother. The King in the North and his lady wife, Talisa.”

Sansa was stung by the Blackfish’s harsh if truthful words. She above all knew what the Lannisters had done to her and to her family. She still had the tell-tale scars on her body and upon her very soul. They were living witnesses and testaments to the beatings and the humiliations as well as the pain she received at the hands of the lions, at the hands of Joffrey. “Jaime won’t hurt me. He protected me. He is good and gentle and kind, and he truly does love me as I do him. He is not like any of _them_. Not anymore.”

Her answer did not seem to satisfy the Blackfish. “Stannis Baratheon claims that the Lion was Joffrey’s true father,” he continued, “is there any truth to this as well?”

Sansa saw no point in lying to him. “Yes . . . I believe Jaime was Joffrey’s true father, as well as Myrcella and Tommen’s.”

Her great-uncle gritted his teeth together, his jaw working hard beneath the grey stubble of his bearded cheeks. “There was always something not natural with that family,” Ser Brynden said under his breath. Then he spoke a bit louder. “And your father Lord Eddard knew the truth of it, did he not? That was why that little shit of a king had your father’s head removed from his body instead of letting him take the Black.”

Sansa’s heart clenched painfully at the remembrance of that fateful day. _Joffrey had promised to be merciful but he killed Father nonetheless, calling it a mercy_. She felt pure hatred coil within her chest, bile rising up her throat. It was threatening to overwhelm her. Sansa wanted to laugh and she wanted to cry but she forced herself to breathe slowly, closing her hands into tight little fists at her side, her nails digging deep into her skin whilst she almost drew blood. _Joffrey is dead now. Dead as my Lord Father. Dead as my Lady Mother and Robb and Greywind. Dead as Bran who loved to climb the walls of Winterfell and dead as wild little Rickon. Dead as Lady._ “Yes,” she almost sobbed as she lowered her eyes to the cold hard ground, no longer looking her great-uncle in the eye.

Sansa knew she would always feel a deep-seated guilt for her father’s death. She had revealed everything to Queen Cersei in a bid to stop Lord Eddard from taking her away from her golden prince and back to Winterfell, stupidly believing in Joffrey’s love for her. _I was so stupid then, a stupid little girl who believed in her prince and the queen. In fair maidens and gallant knights. No longer._ She had so wanted to be like Cersei, but now the thought of it sickened her. _I was no better than Cersei when I took my pleasures with Sandor, even though I thought it was all a dream_. She hated herself for it, but she also knew she had to make peace with what had happened.

Ser Brynden let out a loud grunt and let go of her arms. “And what about the Hound? Why in the seven hells would you want Joffrey’s former Dog to be your sworn shield, girl? He’s a dangerous man and one without honor, a craven who abandoned his master when Stannis Baratheon knocked at the gates of the Red Keep, and a savage beast who raped and killed women and children, the butcher of Saltpans—”

Sansa’s eyes quickly flickered up to look at her great-uncle with a hardness in them she did not know she possessed. “Sandor is not responsible for the atrocities that took place at Saltpans and all those after that. He wasn’t even there; he was away on the Quiet Isle!”

Ser Brynden Tully flinched at her words but Sansa continued on hotly, all the while she felt heat rise up her cheeks and she knew she looked flustered. “Sandor Clegane has more honor in him than many a man I know. He is no true knight, but in many ways he is the truest one of them all, even though he hates them.”

The Blackfish looked at her silently for a few heartbeats. “And are the stories true then? Have you given yourself to him as well?”

Sansa stared at him with her mouth opened in shock. _How can he even know that? Does everyone at the Rock know? There are eyes and ears everywhere . . . just like in the Red Keep._ “I . . . I . . .” she blurted out, not knowing what to say to that.  

“You are playing a dangerous game here child. If you marry the Kingslayer you should let your sworn shield go. You cannot have the both of them.”

“Why not?” she cried. Then she blushed furiously at her own reaction.

He narrowed his eyes at her before sighing. “Because it is not in the nature of men, Sansa. Neither one will want to share you. And if you wed Ser Jaime and keep Clegane as your lover it can only end in tragedy.”

 _This is not the discussion I came here to have_ , she suddenly thought. “However I wish to deal with this . . . _situation_ is my decision and my decision alone,” she said coldly. “I am the Queen in the North, I do not answer to anyone.”

The Blackfish gazed at her intently before responding curtly. “Yes . . . you are. But a queen without an army is a queen without power, Sansa. So, why are you here? Let me offer a guess. You are here to ask for my help. Here to see if you can have the strength of Riverrun and the riverlands behind you along with what’s left of the might of Casterly Rock. Am I right niece?”

She sighed heavily, “Yes.”

“I came here to try and free you from the lion’s grasp, thinking you were the Lannisters’ prisoner. But now it would appear that I am the one who is,” he continued while putting his hands on his hips as he looked around his bedchamber.

“Jaime will let you go, he _asked_ for your help.”

“Might be he will, might be he won’t.”

“Then I will tell him to let you go.”

“You will _tell_ him, girl? Think Jaime Lannister would let anyone tell him what to do? Are you Lord Tywin? Are you Cersei?”

Sansa flinched when the Blackfish spoke Cersei’s name before she started shifting uneasily on her feet. Her hands started smoothing invisible creases over her dress. She cast her eyes down again. “He will,” she said almost in a whisper.

“Hmmmm, mayhap the Kingslayer shall listen to you, if he does love you as he claims to.”

Sansa raised her chin to look her great-uncle in the eyes again. She needed this discussion to end. Jaime was waiting for her. “So, Ser Brynden, _Uncle_ , what shall it be? Will you fight for me and help me retake the north and Winterfell from our enemies?” Her heart was hammering in her chest and her hands were shaking, but Sansa remained as still as if she were carved out of stone. _No, I am steel;_ _I cannot show him that I’m afraid._ _My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel._

“What do you think, child? You’re Cat’s daughter, you are my blood. The Freys and Boltons are our enemies, but might be we can make peace with Stannis Baratheon,” he mused. For a moment, Sansa thought Ser Brynden looked even older than he truly was before he continued, “Aye, you can count on the might of Riverrun.”

“And . . . will my uncle Edmure truly fight for me like he did my brother?” She knew her voice sounded thick with hesitation.

“Your uncle?” The Blackfish gave a quick laugh before he snorted. “Don’t worry about him, girl. Edmure shall do as I bid him.”        

*****

Sansa left her great-uncle’s bedchambers with a jumble of emotions stuck inside her chest. As soon as she was in the hall, Sandor fell in behind her again as she passed the Lannister guards, his unequal footsteps slightly echoing behind her. It made her feel safe.

Since she was now assured of the might of Riverrun and the riverlands to help her retake the north—and, hopefully, Jaime’s support and that of the westerlands as well—Sansa finally felt she could heave a sigh of relief. She wanted nothing more than to wrest Winterfell back from the bloody grasp of the Bastard of Bolton and rebuild her home. Mayhap even finally have a family. _Would Jaime stay with me at Winterfell?_ She wondered. _Sandor would . . ._

Elsewise, she was distraught because of what the Blackfish had told her in regards to Sandor. _He has told me I should let Sandor go as my sworn shield if I wed Jaime. But I cannot do that. I will not do that_ , Sansa was telling herself stubbornly over and over again.

Part of her saw bright as day Ser Brynden Tully was right: Wedding Jaime Lannister and keeping Sandor Clegane as her sworn shield probably _was_ a mistake, but she did not care one whit about that. She knew she desperately wanted Jaime and Sandor close to her and that she _needed_ them as much as she needed the very air she breathed. Loosing either one of them would feel as if she had a big hole in place of her heart and that she would feel . . . _incomplete_.

As her mind raced, she came to a decision. _In the game of thrones you win or you die_. _Joffrey, Cersei, Lord Tywin, Jaime, Sandor . . ._ _It is finally time I stop being a pawn and start to play the game._ With that thought in mind, Sansa Stark smiled.

*****

Jaime and Sansa had been sitting across one another at a long trestle table set in a room between Jaime’s solar and his bedchamber. There was an uncomfortable silence betwixt them which Sansa desperately wanted to break whilst plate after plate after plate of delicate and refined food was being brought up to them from the kitchens down below.

Sansa thought Jaime looked very handsome in a silken crimson tunic embroidered with golden lions. Gone was the white he used to wear as a Kingsguard. _He is separating himself from his former life . . . for me_. His sandy blond hair was neatly combed but a few strands fell here and there before his eyes. She very much wanted to tuck the loose strands behind his ears and the thought made her blush.

The room they were in was splendidly decorated with wall tapestries depicting the rise of the Lannisters as a prominent family in Westeros, and Sansa could see gold treads embroidered with silks of the most beautiful, vibrant colors she had ever seen. More beautiful even than those she’d seen in King’s Landing. There, in one of the tapestries, was the depiction of Lord Tytos Lannister being saved from an angry lioness by the three hounds of House Clegane who died valiantly to save the mighty lord, with Sandor’s grandfather running behind his hounds. Sansa stared at it thoughtfully for some long moments before returning her gaze to her plate. Directly across her, at the other end of the table, Jaime cleared his throat. _He must have noticed me staring at that tapestry._

Unbidden, her thoughts turned to the former Lannister Hound, to Sandor, her sworn shield who was standing right outside by the heavy oaken door, just as she asked him to. Waiting for her to leave Jaime’s bedchambers to take her safely back to hers, probably knowing all the while that she most likely wouldn’t, at least not this night. Brushing these thoughts aside, she looked again around her, her eyes sweeping over the chamber.

On the floor, only the finest Myrish carpets were laid, all of them the color of a thousand sunset skies. Tall candelabras of silver inlaid with gold were strewn about the room with thick tallow candles lighting the small but comfortable dining chamber. Flying birds of various types, colors and hues were painted into the ochre colored walls and Sansa thought they looked as alive as the caged exotic birds she had seen in King’s Landing.

A fire was crackling merrily in the massive stone fireplace to try and chase away the chills of autumn which had already made its way to the westerlands. Sometimes, Sansa would stir of a morning and wake with a light blanket of snow covering the mighty rocks that plunged into the raging sea below. The fireplace had lions intricately sculpted in different attitudes in its smooth, red polished stone—wild beasts were ready to pounce with their paws in the air and their savage claws extended, others were roaring mightily with mouths opened wide and sharp teeth showing, mane flowing in the wind, while some were only lying lazily as if under a warm sunlit day. The flames were licking at the blackened and red logs, casting playful shadows on the walls around them.

The table had been set with exquisitely fine golden cutlery, including gold wine goblets incrusted with emeralds and sapphires and engraved with lions’ heads along the cups’ edges.

Sansa had been so lost in her thoughts she’d barely eaten and was nervously picking at the food on her gold plate. She was playing with her almond crusted trout with her fork absent-mindedly and her tummy was all aflutter and tied into a knot. It was the first time since she had been with Sandor that she was spending any considerable time alone with Jaime . . .

This one was often shooting her meaningful glances when he thought she wasn’t looking, and he seemed to want to say something to her, opening and shutting his mouth close, and opening it again before his mouth drew into a tight line. She too wanted to speak to Jaime but Sansa did not know what to say, or even how to begin.

“You are not hungry,” Jaime finally said, breaking the heavy silence between them to Sansa’s almost palpable relief. “Is the food not to your liking? I could ask the kitchen to bring us something other.”

“No! I mean . . . the food is delicious,” Sansa replied as she bit down on a piece of trout and forced herself to swallow the small morsel of fish. It was crunchy on the outside and tender and moist on the inside. It _was_ delicious, she just wasn’t really hungry.

Taking a sharp intake of breath and sitting herself straight into her chair as she laid down her fork Sansa gathered her courage. “Jaime, I- I wish to apologize for what happened . . . for what I did,” she started. She could not finish the sentence: _for what I did with Sandor_.

Jaime froze as he was about to take a mouthful of his trout. His face suddenly became cold as ice, sending a shiver of dismay creeping up Sansa’s spine. _He has not forgiven me. Of course not, why should he? I betrayed him, betrayed his love, betrayed his trust, I was no better than Cersei_. She felt a deep sadness engulf her again. _If I do marry him, how will he treat me?_ She wondered _. I do not want to be married to someone who no longer loves or cares for me, even if it would be a strong political match. I will not play_ that _game with Jaime._

“I would rather you not mention that anymore Sansa.”

“But I must, Jaime. You offered me to Sandor without a second thought and I—”

“It _wasn’t_ without a second thought, Sansa. As I have previously stated, I had . . . I have given this some thought, believe me.”

“And are you expecting me to actually . . .  _fuck_ you and Sandor both then?” She replied, the word “fuck” tasted strange in her mouth and she did not care for it.

“If that is what you truly wish, yes,” he replied calmly.

“But you clearly do not want this, so why should I even do that? What makes you think that I would bed Sandor again? Why do you think I would deliberately want to hurt you?”

Jaime stared at her hard. He reached for his cup of wine, taking it with his good hand, and swirled the golden liquid around before taking a deep swallow from it. “I believe the fact that you have already lain with Clegane reveals your true desires and feelings for him, despite you saying you love me.”

“So . . . you think that because I have done it once, I shall do so again? I wasn’t myself.” Sansa said, actually hurt. Why was Jaime so intent on pushing her into Sandor’s arms?

“Because isn’t that the way of the world, Sansa? You have wanted and desired Joffrey’s former guard dog for a long time, and you . . . _fucked_ him. Now, in my experience, it is only a matter of time before you give in into your . . .  need for more.”

Sansa stared at him with her mouth agape. She knew it was all very unladylike, but she did not care about that. “Need for more? I am not Cersei!” she protested loudly. Then she felt sudden anger well in her. “And how will you treat me if I do go ahead and marry you for that political marriage of yours? Will you end up beating me like Joff did because you will end up hating me too?” She knew these last words were wrong the moment she said them, knew she did not mean any of them, but Sansa was so angry they escaped her lips unbidden.

Jaime looked at her incredulously, as if someone had thrown a bucketful of icy cold water in his face. “Beat you!” He was so shocked Sansa felt horrible and completely mortified for having even said those words out loud, and she bit her lower lip hard, tasting blood in her mouth.

Jaime’s gaze slowly softened and his shoulders seemed to slump slightly as if under a great strain. “I would never hurt you Sansa, after all we’ve been through together how could you even think that? I protected you from Joffrey, I lost my hand . . .” Jaime stared at his stump, deep in thought, his brows furrowed together before he slowly looked back at her. “I love you Sansa. No matter what happened with Clegane. I- I cannot deny that I wasn’t angry and hurt that you . . . shared his bed because the Seven save me I was . . . I still am. That is why I hurt him.” He sighed. “I wanted to hurt him. Forgive me Sansa, it was not very knightly of me, I know. But it will take time for me to adjust to this . . . reality.”

“But why are you so intent on me continuing sharing Sandor’s bed?” She asked him desperately. She needed to know why Jaime—the man who said loved her and whom she loved—was so willing to share her with another man.

“Because I am afraid to lose you if I don’t Sansa,” he simply said. “I cannot deny the attraction between you and Cleg- Sandor. I can almost feel it, can almost taste it. Do you refute this, Sansa?”

She swallowed hard and lowered her eyes to stare at the spread of food and dinnerware on the table in front of her. “No,” she almost whispered. “I do not deny that there is something that links me to Sandor . . . whether I want to or not.” She sighed deeply. _I will be honest with Jaime and tell him the truth of it, which is more than Cersei ever did for him_. “Jaime, I went to see Maester Aurane and he told me I was a warg, and that perhaps that is the reason why I felt, _feel_ so linked and connected to Sandor.” Sansa felt heat creeping up her chest and going to her neck and cheeks. She fumbled with the fork with her left hand and with the knife with her right, feeling the smoothly polished metal under her fingertips. “He says that perhaps I can even slip into his skin. And I’ve dreamed of him, dreamed of _being_ with him for so long now . . . before we were thrown together by Joff, before I fell in love with you. But I . . .” She swallowed hard. “I never stopped dreaming of him,” she finished in a tiny voice.

“So you admit that you wanted, _want_ Sandor, Sansa. Mayhap . . . that you even love him?” Jaime’s tone had become surprisingly gentle. She noticed he was looking intently at her, sadness spread over his beautiful golden features and Sansa felt her heart swell because she still loved him, and break because she had to admit a harsh truth both to him and to herself.

“Yes.” She merely said. There was nothing else to say. She could no longer fight these strange desires and needs she had for Jaime and Sandor both. She loved them both. Wanted them both. And knew she was probably damning herself into one of the seven hells the septons liked to talk about for these . . . unnatural desires and urges within her. _Septa Mordane would have been horrified, and Mother and Father too. Gods! The Stranger take me! May the Mother forgive me and may the Crone light my way. Warrior, give me strength,_ Sansa prayed fervently to the Seven.

Sansa stared miserably at the plate of trout that remained almost untouched in front of her and started picking at her food again, tossing the almond-crusted pink fleshy fish around with no aim but to try and take her mind out of this discussion.

She became acutely aware that Jaime had risen from his chair and was now making his way toward her.  He stood beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder. Sansa could feel how warm Jaime’s hand was through the fabric of her dress and it sent a wonderful shiver up her spine.

“Sansa . . . would you please rise?”

She raised her head and looked at Jaime intently, her eyebrows knit into a frown. There were butterflies in her belly and tension was coiling like a snake all over her body. Jaime hadn’t touched her since that night . . . his touch felt right and comforting.

Then he offered her his hand and she took it, pushing against the table and rising almost unsteadily to her feet. Her head was spinning and her breathing became shallow. She felt both tense and excited.

“I don’t want us to fight or be angry with each other anymore, Sansa,” Jaime said almost in a whisper.

Sansa’s throat became dry and she thought he looked so unsure of himself, quite the opposite of the cocky, snarky man Jaime liked to show everyone.

Her whole heart went out to him, and she felt her face become flustered and hot.

He reached his good hand to touch her face, slowly caressing her cheek with his calloused thumb. The simple brush of his fingers over her flushed skin sent a jolt of lightening course through her entire body. A dull ache spread over her womanhood and her breath hitched. Her heart started hammering in her chest. The butterflies had returned and they were fluttering madly in her tummy.

Their gaze locked; Tully-blue eyes and steely grey-blue ones. Sansa felt as if she was drowning under Jaime’s intent stare and she suddenly felt in this very moment as if there was no one else in the world but them.

The next thing she knew, Jaime had swept her up her feet and almost roughly deposited her on the cold stone floor on top of the Myrish carpet. Sansa was on her back panting; her skirts already raised around her waist, her legs spread wide in anticipation.

Jaime lowered himself between them and Sansa felt how hard his manhood already was. Suddenly, Jaime pressed soft but firm lips over hers and coaxed her mouth open. He started kissing her hungrily, his tongue darting inside her mouth all the while Jaime was desperately grinding his hips against her. Sansa responded in kind, her tongue rolling wetly against his and her hips jerking up to meet his hardness. A loud moan was ripped from her throat. Their teeth clashed and Jaime managed to rip open her soaked smallclothes in a grunt.

Sansa arched her back against Jaime in complete blinding need as he first licked his fingers, and then slowly eased them between their writhing bodies. After gently caressing her nub, which sent waves of pleasure tingle through her body, Jaime then pushed them deep inside her aching womanhood, sliding his fingers in and out of her quickly as he rubbed her wet nub with his thumb. He had reached his right arm underneath her neck, propping her head off the cold hard ground.

Sansa raised her face to him and moaned against his neck. Her breath hot against his skin, the hair of his beard tickling her. She nibbled at his earlobe, suckling on the soft flesh there and making Jaime groan in pleasure.

He had managed to undo the laces of his breeches whilst struggling with his left hand and his hard shaft was now jutting out of the opening, stiff and leaking at its swollen head already. She stared as his member twitched in anticipation and Sansa very much wanted to take him into her mouth and taste him on her lips and tongue.

Jaime moved to his knees and, taking hold of his engorged manhood, he rubbed it up and down over Sansa’s wet opening, gently parting her folds.

She moaned and hissed at the wonderful friction it created against her nub, against her hard little bundle of nerves and flesh situated above her wet folds. Jaime’s hips were rolling against her, making her whimper in pleasure.

“Tell me you want me inside you Sansa,” Jaime growled, his voice low and husky. He bent down and nipped at her neck, moving his lips slowly over her skin before he trailed light kisses alongside her jawline.

Sansa whimpered as she moved her hips up to meet him again, wanting him deep inside her so bad it was almost hurting. She felt so empty . . .

“Please Jaime,” she almost begged. “Yes, I want you inside me.” Sansa’s heart was beating so hard and fast in her chest the blood rushed deafeningly into her ears. Her breathing was already ragged, her skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Her nipples were puckered hard beneath the silk fabric. She wanted to be out of this pretty new dress of hers, wanted to be naked for Jaime so he could _see_ her, all of her, as she desperately wanted to see all of him once more.

“Help me take my dress off,” she murmured to Jaime.

Jaime helped her sit and Sansa started unlacing the front of her gown before Jaime excitedly pushed the fabric of her dress and shift off her shoulders with his hand, making him hiss at the sight of her heaving breasts now free at last from the restraining silken fabrics. Sansa struggled to pull the dress over her head. The both of them managed to drag it up and off of her and Jaime shoved it behind her back to use as a pillow. Then they took off her shift and dragged what was left of her smallclothes down her long legs. Her stockings and bloots soon followed. Jaime’s warm calloused fingers brushed against her hot skin and she shuddered in pleasure at his touch.

His demanding lips captured hers again in a deep kiss whilst his hand reached to grab her breasts in turn. Molding her flesh almost roughly to his warm calloused fingers and sending another pleasurable shiver up her spine. Sansa whimpered and squirmed against Jaime before reaching for his tunic and pulling it over his golden head as he raised his arms to take off the garment.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as she gazed upon Jaime’s hard, muscular chest. Her eyes flickered over his shoulders, following the sweet curve of his neck, and, lowering her eyes toward his navel, she followed the trail of darker hair pointing to his hard, swollen member.

Jaime then laid himself beside her, resting on his right side. Sansa rolled onto her left and threw her long leg over Jaime’s hips as he ran his good hand over her supple body in exploration. Her breasts quivered in expectation and her nipples were so hard they almost hurt. She pressed her right hand over his hard stomach before moving to his chest, feeling the play of hard muscles beneath his hot skin. Her smooth fingers played with his chest hair and she bit her lower lip in want of him.

Jaime looked at her with a renewed hunger in his eyes she hadn’t seen in so long it made her weak at the knees and she felt a rush of wetness dampen her thighs. He pressed his hard manhood against her wet folds again, rubbing it up and down and making Sansa go mad with desire. She felt herself get wetter than she thought possible and she moaned loudly in complete arousal for him. _It feels right, it feels so right_ , Sansa thought almost incoherently.

“Tell me Sansa,” Jaime groaned, his grey-blue eyes now stormy and dark and filled with lust for her. “Tell me how you want me to take you.”


	19. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Sansa experience a night of passion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! So sorry to have taken so long to update. I have been completely exhausted for the past couple of weeks, and real life has somewhat taken over.
> 
> I am still looking for a Beta, if anyone is interested to help out with the story. I'll also try not to wait too long until the next update. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading <3

**Jaime**

“Tell me Sansa,” Jaime groaned as his eyes locked with hers. Her usually clear Tully-blue eyes were as dark as the raging seas and it flung his arousal even higher. “Tell me how you want me to take you.”

Sansa moaned softly before she breathed. “Jaime . . .” Her hands slowly crawled up his back, leaving a fiery trail upon his body where her fingertips touched his skin, before moving up to entwine into his golden hair. Her sharp nails scratched at the back of his scalp, making his skin rise in wonderful goose prickles.

Jaime groaned again before he lowered his head to bury his face against Sansa’s neck, feeling her warmth, inhaling the sweet scent of her (winter roses, as always) and kissing and licking at her pulse point. His breath caught in his throat and he pressed his lips lightly against her soft, warm skin, feeling how her pulse was racing in her veins with each hammering heartbeat: A hammering his own heart matched stroke for stroke.

Jaime Lannister almost came undone as he felt how Sansa was trembling in his arms, yielding eagerly to the press of his body.

“Tell me,” Jaime whispered against her ear almost desperately, while his hips bucked against her wetness in pure reflex. Oh, how he wanted her! She was so wet for him. _She does still want me_ . . . he thought, hope blooming anew in his chest like the soft petals of a flower. That much was plain enough for him to see—the Kingskayer would needs have been blind not to notice how her body responded to his every touch, to his every lingering caress.

Sansa moaned again, this time her back arched well up the floor in a bid to have her hardened nipples get some blessed friction against his broad chest before she finally answered him. “Like it were the very first time; if it pleases you.” Her voice was almost a plea, and a deep blush violently crept up her cheeks before she looked up at him expectantly, worrying at her lower lip in that precise way that excited Jaime more profoundly than he could say.

With a guttural sound that seemed to rumble from deep within his chest, Jaime pressed his hard member against her moist opening and pushed his aching cock inside her in one slow pleasurable stroke. Sansa was still so tight it made him shudder in pure pleasure as her womanhood exquisitely crushed him, surrounding his hard member in a tight embrace and pulling him deep within her.

“Oh!” Sansa cried out, both in surprise and ecstasy at being so filled by him whilst he was sheeted to the hilt in her. Her nails scratched at him a little harder, leaving more blazing fiery trails that brought him both pleasure and pain at the back of his head.

Jaime groaned and stood unmoving, feeling his cock actually twitch and grow _harder_ inside Sansa. _Seven hells, I do not even know how long I can last with her . ._. Jaime closed his eyes and breathed slowly before opening them to look deep into Sansa’s eyes again. She met his gaze fully and he could see the look of unmistakable arousal etched plainly across her beautiful heart-shaped features.

Slowly, he took in the sharp high bones of her rosy cheeks, letting his large calloused thumb graze gently over the fine skin and bone. Sansa’s luscious plump lips were parted into a little O of pleasure, and Jaime could not resist the urge to slip his thumb in-between them. He let out a loud groan when she started sucking on it lightly. He could feel the blood pumping from his thumb to his hard, throbbing member.

Jaime took in how Sansa’s wonderful silken red hair was spilled as a fiery halo around her head and over the Myrish carpets and, his thumb leaving her mouth, reached out, taking a lock of hair between his wet thumb and forefinger, feeling how soft and silky it was between his calloused fingertips as he slowly rubbed it between his digits.

“Please, start moving inside me,” he heard Sansa say in a soft moan as her fingers left his scalp and she started running her hands over his broad back before bringing them around up to his chest to play with his chest hair. The way her nails lightly scratched at his skin drove him mad with desire for her.

Sansa then ran her soft hands over his sides, caressing his hot skin there in a soothing up and down gesture with her knuckles; before she reached down to fully grab his arse cheeks, pressing him into her. Her hips bucked against him, encouraging him to start moving.

Which Jaime did.

Withdrawing slowly from her tightness, Jaime then snapped his hips hard against her, burying his stiff member deep inside her again. A strangled moan escaped her throat, raw and primal, whilst Jaime grunted again in pleasure. It felt good, so bloody good. Encouraged by her moans, and feeling incredibly aroused, Jaime repeated the motion and was met with more pretty moans from Sansa’s parted luscious lips, just as tingling pleasure went up his spine.

“Raise your legs up Sansa, hitch them over my shoulders . . . yes, like that,” Jaime grunted when he felt his cock being squeezed tight as his hard shaft entered Sansa at a new angle. She squirmed and whimpered beneath him, letting him know that she liked the feeling of him entering her this way.

“Jaime,” Sansa said in a soft exhale before she raised her head off the floor by propping herself on her elbows, to nibble at Jaime’s left earlobe before suckling on it hard, sending more wonderful shivers up and down his spine. Before long, she laid her head down to the floor again; her hands now wrapped tight round his neck. Her back arched and pressed into him.

Gently disentangling her arms from around his neck amidst a cry of protest, and propping himself up onto his knees, with only his left arm for support, Jaime started moving his hips again, letting his cock slide in and out of her at a slow pace. Their hips rocked together gently in a steady rhythm and Sansa moaned with each of his deep slow thrusts into her.

A wonderful shiver crept up his spine and Jaime felt his balls slowly clench and draw closer to his hard shaft. _Not now_ , he thought frantically _. I don’t want to come now, here . . . the bed._

With his heartbeat resounding in his ears, Jaime claimed Sansa’s mouth again, parting her lips with his tongue before they clashed playfully. They moaned into each other’s mouths as Jaime slipped his hard member out of her, eliciting another small cry of protest. “Not here, Sansa,” he explained simply in a soft voice. Then he slowly drew her up in his arms, holding her tenderly as one would a flower most precious. _Sansa is like a winter rose that needs to be plucked gently,_ he reminded himself.

Gathering her, they soon stood standing, their bodies pressed together in wonderful unity: Jaime felt they were melting into one. His arms were resting lightly against her hips, his left hand alternately grabbing her bottom and caressing it. Her skin was at once cool from being pressed onto the floor and silky smooth beneath his rough fingers. Her arms entwined once more around his neck in a tight, almost desperate grip.

“The bed,” Jaime managed to mutter between hot feverish kisses.

“Yes,” Sansa panted against his demanding mouth. Yielding to his every kiss with a passion Jaime had not seen in her in a long while.

They slowly stumbled their way towards his bedchamber, kissing, touching, laughing, moaning. Jaime roughly pushed against the door which gave way under the press of their bodies.

Somehow, they managed to make it to Jaime’s large featherbed, falling onto it whilst still embracing tightly; their embrace born out of a desperate need to be together fully.

Sansa was running her hands all over his body, making him shudder in complete unadulterated bliss. _It has been so long, too long. Why did I ever let her slip away from my arms? I never want her to be away from me again. I don’t care about anything else but her . . . always her._

Jaime had never loved anyone in all his life but his twin, Cersei, until Sansa came along and took his breath away. And despite having broken his heart, he still loved her. The Seven save him. Why was Sansa Stark getting under his skin this way? What was it about her that seemed to bring out parts of him he never knew he had? He felt the overpowering need to love her, to protect her.

And in that very instant, in a moment of rare clarity usually only experienced in the heat of battle, Jaime Lannister suddenly understood Sandor Clegane’s primal need to do the same with her. For her. He wanted to shake his head in disbelief. Why was he thinking of the former Hound in this moment? The thought had him almost laughing at the sheer incongruity of it. Thankfully, his mind steered clear of Clegane and returned to rest upon Sansa.

Sansa, who had now scrambled over the bed and onto her back before spreading her thighs wide for _him_. Her chest was heaving in her excitement, perfect white breasts and tight pink nipples rapidly rising up and down with her gasps, and Jaime could not wait, did not wait to be in her again. Grabbing her hips roughly with his good hand—which made her cry out—and dragging her to him, he pressed his hard member against her wet entrance and pushed himself inside her again. As soon as he was in her, he started moving his hips, making her moan in want of him. Jaime wanted to bring Sansa pleasure, wanted to make her scream in pure bliss underneath him as he pumped himself in and out of her.

“Sansa . . .” he almost hissed as he met her dark stormy gaze and withheld it whilst his hips were busy moving inside her seemingly of their own accord.

“Jaime . . .” she answered back in a throaty moan before she bared her teeth to him.

_She’s a real Stark wolf, and I am a Lannister lion. The lion and the wolf together, united as one. And the Hound is standing at my door, no doubt listening . . ._

The thought of Clegane, listening in onto his and Sansa’s lovemaking, unexpectedly inflamed Jaime and he rolled his hips harder, making Sansa moan louder in response.

_Not like this_ , he suddenly thought wildly.

Jaime slipped his rock-hard cock out of Sansa who yelped in surprise before he quickly turned her onto her stomach, making her kneel on the edge of the soft feather mattress. It sunk underneath her weight as she splayed out her hands on the bed, bracing her arms, and spreading her legs wide. He entered her again, a bit more roughly than he had intended, making her hiss in pain before she gasped and writhed in pleasure against him.

Sansa turned her head to look back at him, desire and pleasure plainly written across her beautiful features. “Jaime . . . yes, oh, oh, yes, please yes.”

Jaime then bent over Sansa, resting both his arms on each side of her head as he drove into her, his hips snapping sharply against hers, his hard cock sliding steadily inside of her in a swift in and out motion. Jaime could hear the sounds of their skin slapping against each other wetly, rising loudly in the warm bedchamber.

“Is that what you want, Sansa?” He panted in her right ear. His breath warm as a soft caress against her skin. He saw goose bumps prickle her skin.

“Yes,” Sansa whimpered underneath him.

His hips rocked into her whilst he reached to fist her hair in his good hand, pulling on it slightly. Sansa tilted her head sideways, her long white neck exposed to him, her teeth bared again and almost growling in pleasure at the gesture while she shot him a lustful glance.

Sansa let out another loud moan and he bent over her again and pressed his lips against her earlobe, suckling on the soft, tender flesh gently before nibbling at it. His hips were moving back and forth in a steady rhythm, his pleasure tingling like rain all over his body. Sansa was so wet his cock slipped in and out of her easily and he could hear the sounds her juices made as she whimpered in bliss beneath him.

Everything conspired to drive him mad and Jaime could not help the low, guttural sound that escaped him.

Sansa wiggled against his strong body to slip her right arm between her legs, her long fingers reaching her wet nub. Jaime became aware that she was now rubbing herself almost desperately as he fucked into her, and her moans had hitched higher. He could see the lovely curve of her back as her shoulders and her left arm pushed against the mattress, the coverlets crumpled in her grasp. Jaime could definitely see the play of muscles underneath the pale shoulder blades. The small of her back was curved slightly upwards as if in an offering to him, her buttocks were raised higher up so that Jaime could penetrate her even more deeply.

Jaime knew he could not hold on for much longer: His excitement was running high, his rock-hard cock felt incredibly sensitive inside Sansa as he kept on pumping himself in and out of her, his hips moving steadily, rhythmically. He felt his balls get hard as his release was just there, around the corner. _Just a few more thrusts and I’ll spill my seed inside her_ , he thought, letting out a loud grunt.

“Sansa,” he panted, “I’m going to come . . . do you want me to hold on? Are you . . . are you close?”

Fuck him but he was desperate to peak with her; he wanted them both to reach their climax together, wanted to experience all the seven heavens with the woman he loved, the woman between whose long legs he was now moving.

“Yes. But I want to turn around Jaime, I want to see your face . . . please,” she almost begged in-between pants.

Jaime stopped thrusting with difficulty and his cock, glistening with her juices, twitched in protest. He’d been so bloody close . . .

The kingslayer took a deep breath whilst Sansa scrambled onto the bed to turn over and she was now lying flat on her back, with her firm white teats heaving up and down in pleasure, her pink nipples stiff and wanting to be licked and suckled upon, her breath ragged. Her eyes were still clouded in desire, her plump pink lips slightly parted open, her cheeks red with arousal and exertion.

The sight of Sansa looking that way, at once completely excited and trusting, conspired to drive Jaime mad with want of her. It ran deep under his skin, and gave birth to a profound desire for him to plough into her until there was nothing else she could give him and she would fall apart beneath him.

Heart hammering in his chest, Jaime wrapped her legs—which she had spread wide for him—around his waist.

Jaime shuddered as Sansa rubbed one of her smooth legs up and down his side before hitching them both against his lean hips, pressing him into her as her hands crawled up his neck whilst he bent slightly over her before they went to entwine in his hair again.

Without waiting, Jaime buried his painfully hard cock deep inside her again and Sansa let out a soft moan at the sensation of his stiff, swollen member filling the void he had previously created.

“Oh, yes . . .” Sansa moaned softly as she returned to rubbing her hard little bundle of flesh and nerves situated over her wet folds, whilst he resumed pumping himself inside her. Jaime felt as if he wanted to fill her with his very soul.

He bent his golden head over her again—hair falling before his eyes, tickling him—and Jaime’s hungry lips searched for hers. Sansa’s mouth moved and opened under the insistent press of his own demanding one. They kissed deeply and Jaime stopped thrusting whilst their tongues slid wetly against each other, reveling in the sweet taste of her.

Jaime’s heart was beating in his chest like a war drum. The blood was rushing maddeningly in his ears. He was so bloody excited he did not, _could_ not, hold back the sweeping wave of his upcoming climax that was slowly engulfing him. Bracing himself by laying both arms on the sides of Sansa’s silky-smooth thighs (his phantom limb desperately clutching at . . . nothing)—feet planted firmly on the cold, flagstone floor—Jaime snapped his hips inside Sansa once and she moaned. Twice and she moaned again. Then he kept on snapping them steadily and he was rewarded with more pretty moans from her as she spread her smooth legs wider to accommodate him. Jaime started drilling into her with a desperation that even surprised him. Control and restraint could now be damned to all the seven hells.

Jaime was by now grunting hard as his hips kept a quick, steady pace, fucking into Sansa with a renewed sense of urgency. He was breathing hard, his breath coming in short gasps as he felt his pleasure build inside him again. He knew he was close to that blessed edge once more, knew that a few more deep thrusts into her would tip him over and bring him to his long-desired for release.

Sansa slowly moved her hands, leaving her wet nub unattended, and laid them against his hard, muscular arms. Her breathing was ragged and coming in quick gasps. Her head was now tipped back in her pleasure, exposing her long white throat; her eyes were closed in ecstasy, with her eyelids fluttering wildly, and her mouth was opened into an arousing little O.

“Do you- do you want me to come inside you Sansa? Or would you rather I . . .” His tone was a mix of caution and hope.

“No!” she cried out as her eyes snapped open and she looked at him deeply. Jaime felt like drowning in the storming blue seas of her eyes. “Inside me . . . please.”

“Oh, gods, Sansa!” Jaime moaned. “Are you sure? I could slip out of you and spill my seed over your belly so you won’t find yourself with child, unless . . .” _Unless you want a child with me, or you already are with child_ , he thought with a pang. _She could very well be . . . but would it be mine, or Sandor’s?_ The thought made his head spin dangerously and a hot pang of jealousy flared in his chest.

“Jaime . . .” Sansa said on an exhale. “We are to be married . . . of course I want your child.” Jaime saw how her cheeks had reddened over what she had just told him and somehow the sight of her, her readiness to bear his child, spurred him on.

“Sansa,” he said in a strangled moan as he increased the tempo with which he was fucking her, all rhythm now lost. Then a sudden thought. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Sansa only managed to moan.

“Sansa . . . I need to know.” He suddenly demanded in time with the thrusting of his hips. His tone was urgent, pressing.

Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, her cheeks red. Jaime thought she had never looked more beautiful. She opened her heavy lids and stared at him wide-eyed. “Yes Jaime, I’m yours.”

Jaime Lannister felt a wave of relief and pure love wash over him before he buried his face into Sansa Stark’s neck as he drilled into her desperately, quickening the pace, and he was hit with the savage strength of his release; it was a tidal wave that took everything in its wake. His hips rose higher as his cock slid in and out of her, his painfully engorged member twitched as his seed spurted out of his hard shaft and into Sansa’s sweet cunt. He let out a loud groan as if he were dying.

Then he milked every single drop of his release, pumping his cock in and out as he climaxed hard, his moans and groans of pleasure escaping his lips; lips he had pressed against Sansa’s warm neck as he came.

He became dimly aware that she was tightly holding on to him, whispering soothing words in his left ear.

*****

Jaime was staring at the ceiling of his bedchamber, lost in thought. In the orangey glow of the last dying ambers of the massive stone fireplace he noticed there was a crack running there and his brows furrowed in slight annoyance. _I must have it fixed by the stone masons_. The thought seemed incongruous as he had more pressing matters to think upon.

Sansa was nudged warmly in his arms, sleeping. He could feel the rhythmic, steady swell of her chest as she breathed deeply. Her red head lay against the crook of his arm, and she had one slender limb thrown across his chest whilst one long leg was entwined with his.

She murmured something in her sleep he could not understand but the little sigh of contentment she breathed out made his heart skip a beat.

Looking down at her, Jaime knew how much he truly loved Sansa. There would never be anyone else for him, now. He knew he would take her with everything that she had. Even if that also meant a scarred six-foot six, dangerously murderous massive man who happened to be her sworn shield—and who, mayhap, even was her lover—if she was so inclined. Jaime realized, to his complete astonishment, that he was no longer afraid of this. _Everything for her._

Jaime gently kissed the top of her head and went back to his musings.

Casterly Rock had received dozens of missives from King’s Landing in the past few days as raven after raven flew into the Rock, carrying their dark news with them. They had deeply disturbed him.

The body of his father, the great Lord Tywin Lannister, had recently made its way home back to Casterly Rock without any troubles from the Black Wolves. Jaime had received his dead father with all the pomp and ceremony due to a man of Tywin Lannister’s standing and greatness. Jaime recalled how they had stood in the Rock’s red stoned courtyard, all grim and solemn as a light drizzle mingled with sleet fell upon them, damping the cloaks clasped about their shoulders. _If only Cersei even had a tenth of our father’s political skills, the Seven Kingdoms would be the better for it_ , he had thought then. Unfortunately, his sister had ruled the land foolishly.

Sansa had stood by him with eyes downcast whilst Sandor had stood behind her, tall and immovable. No one had said a word as Jaime’s lord father was interred into the Hall of Heroes, but later, Sansa had seeked him in his solar in a bid to comfort him but in his grief, he had turned her away.

His uncle Ser Kevan (who had assumed his and Cersei’s son King Tommen’s regency) had written him that the Red Viper of Dorne, Prince Doran Martell’s hot-headed younger brother Prince Oberyn, had finally had the trial by combat he had demanded against Sandor Clegane’s monstrous brother Gregor.

Mayhap not so surprisingly, the Red Viper had perished in the battle; his skull crushed like one would crush a fruit too ripe under the deathly press of the Mountain that Rides’ huge, massive hands—but not before Prince Oberyn had poisoned the elder Clegane sibling with multiple cuts from his spear, as a wasp stings its prey countless times.

Now Clegane was also dead after several days spent in excruciating pain, his screams of agony being frightfully heard all over the Red Keep before they were forever silenced—swallowed by the deep dark dungeons beneath the keep. The Mountain had been remitted into the hands of one of his sister’s many creatures, one he did not know. An ex-maester of the Citadel named Qyburn.

Jaime recalled how he poured and poured over the tiny rolls of parchment, smoothing the small crackled sheets of paper with his good hand whilst holding one corner with the golden hand that replaced his missing limb, eyes squinting in the dim glow of tallow candles as he learned that Ser Gregor Clegane’s head had, in the meanwhile, been dispatched along with Ser Balon Swann to Prince Doran Martell as proof of King’s Landing’s goodwill and friendship towards Dorne, as well as a peace offering. It was the final proof that Doran’s sister Elia’s murderer was indeed finally dead.

Jaime paused in the midst of reading. _Sandor will have to be told of this, I do not believe he will welcome the news: he has lived only to see his brother dead and by his own hand, not by another’s. Still, should I let Clegane know? If I do, he could foolishly strike for Dorne in a thirst for vengeance and get himself stupidly killed in the endeavor._ He knew he could not keep this news away from the former Hound, just as he knew Sansa would never get over her sworn shield’s death in the eventuality.

Jaime shook his head and sighed at the thought. No matter what, Sandor would have to be told, he decided. Told and be watched closely so he doesn’t do anything senseless.

His eyes settled once more on the crack running through his ceiling before his thoughts drifted back to the other new missives he had received earlier today.

Jaime learned that Cersei had finally confessed to the new High Septon—that over-zealous pious fanatic—that she did have relations with their cousin Lancel, as well as with all three brothers Kettleblack. Elsewise, she denied having ordered Ser Osney to murder the previous High Septon, as well as denying that she’d had her husband, King Robert Baratheon the First of his Name, slain.

He frowned in anger. Even if Cersei had denied everything to all the seven heavens—or to all the seven hells, Jaime did not care which—in the face of the Seven, Jaime knew the dark truth of it, did he not?

The kingslayer shuddered with pure loathing when he imagined his cousin Lancel and all three Kettleblacks between Cersei’s long legs, taking their pleasures with her, _fucking_ her. He could hear his twin’s beguiling moans of pleasure in his mind: they had once been for him and only him; or so she’d had him believe.

He also learned that Cersei was to be shorn of the long golden locks Jaime had loved so much as well as the hair on her entire body and that she would have to submit to a penance walk by the Faith from the Great Sept of Baelor to the Red Keep. No Lannisters will be there to support her, his uncle wrote.

Jaime shuddered at the thought. _Cersei has aimed too high and has been brought so low by her own mad ambition and her wild schemes and plots; she had none of Father’s talents for ruling, though she believed herself his equal._ Lord Tywin had been ruthless, cold and precise as a blade, and a master at playing the game of thrones. Cersei was but a pale shadow of her sire. _We are all but pale shadows of Father. All three of us_. Jaime thought of his brother Tyrion and wondered where his dwarf brother was. _Is he even alive?_ Jaime could not tell. He had heard nothing from him ever since his escape from the Red Keep’s deep dark dungeons. Neither had anyone heard from the Spider as well, Lord Varys, the master of whisperers. _They are probably drinking wine somewhere across the Narrow Sea, in Penthos, laughing as if this was all a big jest. An elaborate one at that._

Jaime had kept everything from Sansa this night, he believed she did not need hear any of this yet, and Jaime had wanted to spend the time with her.

_It is passing strange_ , he mused, _that I can forgive Ned Stark’s daughter readily where I cannot forgive Cersei_. Jaime believed that Sansa’s love for him was genuine, whereas he now was certain Cersei’s love for him was all a lie. Mayhap she had truly loved him once, but now power . . . _power_ was the thing she loved. And she had lost it all. Still, could he leave his sister this way? The woman he had once loved?

Jaime tilted his head down to look at Sansa. She was still sleeping cradled in his arms, and her long eyelashes cast soft shadows over her rosy cheeks. Her fiery red hair was spilled around her head and over his chest and shoulders to fall in silky smooth strands over the soft, fluffy pillows.

His heart swelled at the sight of her.

He slightly craned his neck and kissed the top of her head while she squirmed to get closer to him in a loud sigh.

Jaime Lannister thought he could never have been happier than he was just now. _Then why do I also feel that something bad will happen?_

*****

Jaime was pacing the length of his solar back and forth; the shuffle of his booted feet disrupting the lay-out of the fresh rushes on the floor, where no beautiful Myrish carpets were laid.  The room was littered with opened books, still-unread parchments, quills and ink pots and all kinds of paper. Old and dusty smelling books lined the shelves of the library.

And that library was extensive

Lord Tywin Lannister had been a man who had loved to read, to pour over books and seek out their mysteries. But not Jaime. Jaime had hated books. As a youth, he could neither make head nor tail of the carefully and neatly printed words on a page. His father would spend hours out of his already grueling daily schedule helping Jaime, his eldest son and heir, his pride and joy, get over a debilitating reading impediment he’d had ever since he could remember. The words had never made sense to him, the letters jumbled in his head. It took years for him to master the written word but master it he did.

But instead of a happy memory, spent in company of his Lord Father, the memory left a sour taste in Jaime’s mouth.

“I’ll dig a bloody hole in that floor if I keep this up,” Jaime muttered under his breath after he had paced the length of his solar for the hundredth time, or so it seemed to him. More work for the stone masons, what with the crack in his bedchamber ceiling, he thought with a snort. Jaime ran his good hand into his hair nervously. He was _not_ looking forward to what was coming next.

The former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had always been a cocky man. As early as he could remember, he had always been so perfectly sure of himself. Failure had never been an option for a Lannister such as him. His father would make sure of that.

A squire at eleven, Jaime had won his first tourney melee at thirteen. At age fifteen, he was knighted by the Sword of the Morning himself; Ser Arthur Dayne—an honor Jaime held dear to his breast even to this day. He had saved Lord Crakehall from Big Belly Ben, before crossing swords with the Smiling Knight. And soon after, Jaime had been anointed as a Kingsguard by Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of King Aerys Targaryen’s Kingsguard, so that Jaime could be close to his sweet sister, whom his father had loftily planned to marry to Aerys’s son Prince Rhaegar. Jaime had been the youngest ever to accede such a position in Westeros.

He was the golden Lion of Lannister.

Jaime had always been keenly aware that was how the entire world saw him, but he had never cared one whit about that. Even as he slipped his blade through the sagging flesh of the Mad King’s pale throat, sending him into all the seven bleeding hells with a red smile to show for it. Until Jaime got his hand cut off, that was. But the prospect of talking to Sandor Clegane about the death his brother Gregor was making Jaime more than slightly nervous and he was no longer quite so sure of himself. The man could cleanly cleave him in half if he wished it so.

He had sent his squire Podrick to bring Sandor back with him. The man was being currently busy pulling guard duties over Sansa, as per usual at this time of day. He was her sworn shield after all.

After a sleepless night spent staring at that annoying crack in the ceiling, with Sansa still warmly nudged in his arms, Jaime had decided to reveal to Sandor the fate of his monster of a brother.

The Mountain that Rides had been his father Lord Tywin Lannister’s unholy creature. Jaime had never frequented the eldest Clegane son, even when they had both been at Casterly Rock. Jaime had never liked Gregor who was nothing but a mindless, walking, killing brute and had kept well away from him—as his father also commanded.

Sandor, on the other hand, well . . . Sandor had almost looked like a lost puppy when he first arrived at the Rock, but a young Jaime had seen the rage that lied sleeping beneath the young man’s burned features. Seen how much Sandor hated his brother and the entire world around him. Seen how much he hated knights. Sandor Clegane had been full of anger and rage and loathing and bitterness: that much Jaime had seen. And his father had used that rage, fueling it to mold Sandor into the Hound. The perfect guard dog for his perfect daughter Cersei, before he became Joffrey’s own sworn shield. But Sandor had bitten his master’s hand and had left Joffrey when Stannis Baratheon had knocked on the Red Keep’s gates.

The door opened violently, cool air swooping into the large solar and sending some of those unread scrolls of thin, crackling paper flying off the large oaken table as Sandor Clegane purposefully strode into Jaime’s solar, already angry. He noticed that the imposingly large and tall man was still limping and Jaime felt a tiny pang of guilt.

“What the fuck do you want Jaime,” Sandor growled at him as he made his way toward him in just a few long, if wobbling, strides, a deep, irritated scowl already forming over his scarred features. His mouth was twisted in barely restrained fury. “The little bird is with your bastard cousin and should not be left alone. I had to leave my scrawny squire Benjen along with yours to keep an eye on them; but the kid’s no good until I’ve trained him proper.” Sandor’s eyes quickly glanced around the solar before his dark gaze finally settled upon Jaime.

Jaime stared at Sandor for a few heartbeats, his head cocked to the right, his mouth drawn into a tight line. He was leaning against the front of his work table, his back to the clutter behind him, arms folded over his chest. _He’s already angry and I haven’t told him anything yet. Gods be good._ He sighed deeply. “Sansa being with Joy is perfectly safe Clegane. For fuck’s sake, what do you think my cousin will do to her?”

“She’s a Lannister,” Sandor answered back in a snarl, as if that alone explained Sandor’s concern for Sansa.

Jaime wanted to roll his eyes at the former Hound whilst Sandor was looking down at him with a massive glare; but he thought better of it. _He stood outside our door last night . . . he must have heard us, Sansa and I._ Once more, the idea that their lovemaking might have been overheard by Sandor made Jaime’s spine tingle and a shiver he could not explain unexpectedly ran all over his body. _What in the name of the Seven am I doing?_

For his part, if Sandor Clegane _did_ indeed hear them fucking, he wasn’t betraying any sign of it. Besides the deep scowl, the rest of Sandor’s face was at present a complete blank to Jaime. Unexpectedly, the thought irritated Jaime more than he could say.

But then another thought dawned on Jaime and he found he did not like this one the tiniest bit either. _Is Sandor Clegane the better man for Sansa?_ Jaime found himself musing in growing horror as he stared at the massive scarred man fuming in front of him. After all, who better than Joffrey’s former watchdog to watch over her? _All my family has done is hurt Sansa, hurt the Starks. We’ve killed her family, I pushed her little brother . . ._ Jaime tried to recall the name. _Bran, was it? That was Ned Stark’s older brother’s name too, Brandon. Out a window in Winterfell . . ._

The thought made Jaime Lannister uneasy and a shudder went through him.

_That was in another time_ , he reasoned with himself. _You are the better man now, and it is all because of Sansa, the woman you love._ Still, there was a little voice at the back of his head that kept on nagging at him. ‘ _You pushed her little brother. You wanted to kill him. All for Cersei_.’ He brushed the thought aside as he took a sharp intake of breath through his nose and out his mouth.

“Clegane . . . Sandor . . .” he began, actually searching for words. Jaime Lannister found for once that he was simply tongue-tied. Him, the one with the golden tongue! Jaime would have laughed if it wasn’t so sad. He had practiced what he had wanted to say beforehand but now everything he had come up with went out the window. _‘Like Sansa’s little brother Bran_ ,’ the little voiced nagged at him again.

“What is it, _Kingslayer_?” Sandor rasped.

Jaime put his good hand on the pommel of his sword, Oathkeeper, which was cinched upon his hip. He’d called his Valyrian steel blade that after his father had given it to him back in King’s Landing, before he took Sansa to Casterly Rock. Jaime had decided to give his new blade that particular name when he took her away from his little shithead of a son Joffrey, and promised to keep her safe. _Does Sansa know Oathkeeper was forged from Eddard Stark’s own great sword Ice?_ If she did, she never showed nor mentioned it. Yet, yet. She must have known . . .

Sandor’s gaze had followed Jaime’s hand wordlessly as he rested it lightly on the pommel of his sword, the gesture was meant to be at once casual and threatening. Sandor started laughing with a snort.

“Careful with that blade,” the former Hound said. “You could cut yourself deep with that and bloody well lose that other hand of yours, if you’re not cautious. What would the little bird say to that, Jaime? Might be it’d break her heart, have you thought of that? Don’t worry, it won’t break mine though.” He laughed then, his voice a dry rasp. Then it came. “And you couldn’t fuck her proper anymore.” Sandor smirked at Jaime and his hand went to rest lightly on the pommel of _his_ own sword, Trueheart.

Jaime stared at Sandor hard, his eyebrows knit together and beads of sweat pearled on his forehead. His lips, already drawn into a tight line, began to curl upwards at the corners. He could feel his nostrils flare. Sandor’s own massive glare was merely reflected in his features.

But before Jaime could utter one more word, Sandor kept on in almost a sigh. “If it is about me being around the little bird, no need to worry. I have decided to leave Casterly Rock as soon as she is wedded to you. Bugger me, but I will not stay put and see her married to a fucking Lannister, even if that fucking Lannister is you,” he rasped with bitterness in his tone.

Jaime was startled. “You would leave her side?” he asked incredulous. He had not expected that. _He loves her . . . why would he be parted from Sansa?_

“Aye,” Sandor said, straightening. His hand was still gripping the pommel of his sword like a lover holding on too tight.

“Have you even told her about your decision to leave her side?” Jaime asked, curious. Did it have anything to do with last night? He could not help to think.

“No. And she doesn’t need to hear this from you,” Sandor growled menacingly. Venom dripped in his tone. “I mean it, Jaime, or I’ll come strangle you with your own guts.”

Jaime felt himself blanch as the blood drained from his face at once. But soon after color rose back to his cheeks and he felt them burning. “We are not here for a fight,” Jaime said in deep exasperation whilst he felt his missing hand twitch by his side. “There is some . . . news I must impart to you.”

“What news,” Sandor rasped suspiciously.

Jaime sighed. “Listen, Sandor, I do not know how to say this but—”

“But what?” Sandor’s voice was still a snarl, but now Jaime could detect . . . was it hesitation, even worry in his tone?

Seeing Sandor’s barely contained blank expression, Jaime just let it spill out of his lips, like a glass of wine filled to the brim. There was no sense in keeping this news from Sandor longer than was necessary.

“Your brother Gregor is dead.”

At first, Sandor blinked quite a few times before looking back blankly at him. Jaime fleetingly thought that he looked like an owl, despite his burnt features. But the hand that held his sword was wrapped so tightly around the pommel Jaime thought he would break it by sheer force.

Then—and Jaime Lannister did not think this was even possible—Sandor Clegane turned white as a sheet.


	20. Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor deals with the aftermath of Jaime and Sansa's night of passion.

**Sandor**

Sandor Clegane was as drunk as he could possibly be.

He was slumped onto his large feather bed with the mattress well sunk beneath his massive weight, his broad back leaning against the simply carved wooden headboard; he had a skin of wine in hand whilst a few empty ones already lay discarded beside him in a heap. His attire was down to a wine-stained woolen tunic and assorted breeches—his various pieces of armor and calf-skin leather boots were strewn about in a clutter on the flagstone floor and sweet-smelling rushes. His sword, Trueheart, had at least been laid reverently on the small table by the bed.

After the fucking Kingslayer had told him of his sodding brother’s slow, agonizing death by poison at the hands of the Red Viper; about how they had then beheaded him and sent his skull to Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, he had stormed out of Jaime’s solar and immediately headed to the Rock’s kitchens to raid the pantry for some wine: Dornish sour red, ironically enough, his favorite—to the terrified glances of the kitchen boys and kitchen wenches.

Sandor also felt that he was in need of a good, hard fuck—or better yet, to kill someone—and since the little bird didn’t seem inclined to bed him again nor to want him anymore—having chosen Jaime fucking Lannister—he was thinking of heading out of the Rock to go to one of Lannisport’s few scattered whorehouses (Lord Tywin Lannister had hated whores with all his might) in the town, and choose a girl with fiery red hair, full breasts and round hips. None of that slight, slender body with firm white teats for him; he wanted a full breast to squeeze in his large, calloused hand.

The former Lannister Hound was examining his prospects, wondering if heading out of the keep at this late hour whilst he was at present quite pleasantly drunk was actually a good idea—though he knew his sheer size alone, if not the sight of his burnt scars, would most like to deter anyone from picking a fight with him—and whether or not he was likely to find a whore with long red hair, a slender body and firm white teats, when a small knock at his door interrupted his reverie.

“Whomever you are, leave me the fuck be if you have any wits about you!” he bellowed as he took another sip of wine. He was in no mood to talk to anyone.

A tiny voice on the other side of the door responded. “Sandor, it’s me . . . Sansa. Please, open the door.”

Fuck, it was the little bird herself, Sansa bloody Stark. What in the seven hells did she want with him now?

“Go back to your golden cage and your buggering Lion, little bird, I’m in no mood to talk,” he replied angrily.

However, it soon became obvious to him, after more persistent knocking on Sansa’s part and more of “Sandor, let me in,” that she had no bloody intention to leave him alone with his wine and his misery. She was too good, too courteous for that. Sandor snorted inwardly and chuckled but he did not move an inch.

Sansa pressed on, her voice slightly muffled by the oaken door. “Jaime told me what happened to your brother . . . please let me in. I want to talk with you. You- you should not be alone,” she pleaded in that sweet voice of hers.

Sandor first felt his face drain of color, then he felt it become hot and probably fairly red at the revelation that Jaime had told her about his hated—and quite dead—brother Gregor. He mentally promised himself that he would strangle Jaime with his bare hands the next time he would see him.

Another loud knock at the door came, with Sansa urgently pleading with him to open his door once more.

Fuck him into all the seven buggering bloody hells, he _knew_ he was going to open that stupid door, did he not? Sighing loudly and puffing air through his pursed lips, Sandor swung his legs over the side of the bed before rising unsteadily. He grabbed at the table lying by the bed’s side to try and steady himself and took a deep breath: his head was spinning dangerously, as if a ship caught in a maelstrom, driven to its inexorable, watery fate, and he lurched precariously to his feet.

 _Damn me, I’m drunk_.

Taking another deep breath, Sandor made his way slowly to the door, limping heavily on his wounded leg. Even though the wine had dulled most of the pain—as well as what was left of his wits, obviously—he was still hurting bad enough he couldn’t walk proper. Maester Aurane had recently changed the dressing but even though the kindly man said it was healing nicely, it still hurt as fuck. “Sodding Jaime Lannister,” he mumbled under his breath.

Finally reaching the heavy oaken door, Sandor angrily unlocked the bolt, struggling with it slightly whilst cursing profusely under his breath, and opened the door roughly as he snarled: “Why can’t you just leave me _be_ little bird? I don’t want to talk and I don’t need your charity.”

Without a word, Sansa strode past him in a flurry of skirts and turned around, putting her hands on her hips and raising her chin defiantly at him. Through his drunken haze, Sandor fleetingly thought that she looked incredibly beautiful wearing that blue lambswool dress of hers which underlined each and every single one of her womanly curves. Her beautiful, silken red hair was falling freely about her chest, shoulders and her back in a fiery cascade of loose curls since she had not even bothered to style it. The little bird was even wearing that gold wolf pendant of hers that looked so much like a dog, and Sandor chuckled at the sight of it.

Then he let his eyes slowly rake over Sansa’s body and Sandor openly leered at her. “Nice teats in that dress, little bird, you truly are a woman.” Might be she’d finally leave him be if he was crude to her? Sandor hoped so. However, it did not take long for his hopes to get completely crushed.

Sansa completely ignored him.

“It is not charity and I know how you must be feeling, Sandor. I know how you hated your brother and how you wanted to be the one to kill him. I know this is what has driven you for most of your life,” she said simply, her Tully-blue eyes filled with compassion. Sandor hated it. He hated her. _No, you love her, you bloody fool._

Sandor gave Sansa what he hoped was a murderous scowl before making his way slowly—all the while trying to hide his limp from her—to the stone fireplace. He stopped and knelt painfully beside the hearth, cursing under his breath, in order to stir the black-burning logs and dying ambers back to life with the iron poker. Seven hells, how he hated doing that. He threw in a fresh new log and a few ambers sparked and hit the flagstone floor in a shower of tiny lights. Sandor winced and pulled back instinctively.

“I could have done that for you, Sandor,” Sansa reproached him in that concerned voice of hers, her words almost echoing his thoughts. Sandor slowly rose to his feet—fuck, his head was spinning—and gave her another massive glare before heading back to the bed.

“I can take care of my own buggering fire, little bird,” he shot back rather tartly. Sandor slowly climbed back into bed with a barely muffled grunt of pain, not caring one whit whether Sansa was there or not. Seizing the skin of wine in his hand again, he took another deep swig as Sansa looked miserably back at him.

From the corner of one eye, he could see that Sansa was playing nervously with the fabric of her dress. She was also fidgeting on the spot, shifting her weight from one leg to the next. Sandor could hear her sighing heavily and her eyebrows were knit together, her upper lip pursed as if in deep thought.

“Jaime also told me you wanted to leave Casterly Rock, that you no longer wanted to be my sworn shield,” he heard Sansa haltingly say. Her voice was hesitant and was down to an almost inaudible whisper. In fact, it was so low he had barely heard her. Her head was downcast so as not to look directly at him, the supple white curve of her neck showing through the long red curls which now fell mostly over her chest. Her hands were still anxiously smoothing down her gown in apprehension.

 _Jaime talked when I explicitly asked him not to. Damn that bloody Lannister Lion_ , Sandor thought angrily. He fleetingly imagined himself throttling the golden-haired bastard with his bare hands; his large calloused fingers closing tight around the Kingslayer’s throat.

Sansa made her slow way towards Sandor’s bed, her step hesitant. When she was but a few feet away from him, she raised her head to look him full in the eyes. She was worrying at her lower lip fretfully and Sandor thought he could see water in her Tully-blue eyes, as well as pale traces he had not noticed before, where tears had run freely over her high cheekbones. Mayhap she had cried moments before she had come to see him?

Sandor took another swig of the sour Dornish red wine he was still grasping and felt the wonderful heat go down his gullet and to his stomach in a trail of liquid fire.

“Is this true?” Sansa asked him softly, as if she were afraid to say the words and worse: to hear his answer.

Sandor harrumphed and cleared his throat noisily before he answered her. “Aye, it’s true enough, little bird.”

He saw that Sansa’s beautiful heart-shaped face had suddenly turned white as a sheet whilst she clasped her hands together almost desperately.

“Why?” she cried.

Sandor stared at her thoughtfully before taking another deep swallow from the blessed liquid sitting in his lap. Then he spoke heatedly. “Why? The Lady asks. It is because I cannot bear to see you married to the Lannister Lion, _My Lady_. Do you honestly think I would simply stand by after I told you how I felt . . . feel about you, Sansa? Do you think I want to see you and the bloody Lion together? Do you think it doesn’t hurt me to think of the pups you’ll have with him? His pups, not mine. Even the thought of you with Jaime makes me sick. You have no idea of the agony I felt last night as I heard you both take your pleasures together. I cannot, will not stay.”

“So you heard us,” she said softly. Then he saw her press her lips together tightly. “Well, I don’t want you to go, Sandor.”

He squinted his eyes for a moment before he frowned. “You cannot tell me what to do, little bird. Besides, you obviously don’t need or even want me.”

“That’s not true!” she replied hotly, red now suffusing her cheeks. “I _do_ need you! And I _do_ want you!”

Sandor roughly deposited the skin of wine on the bed beside him and leaned over toward her. “No, you bloody well don’t. Don’t act the petulant child, little bird. You have Jaime, remember? One-paw’s seemingly man enough for you, he can take care of you, even without his bloody sword hand.”

Sansa’s entire countenance changed and she looked icily back at him.

 _Gods she’s so beautiful when she’s absolutely furious._ Sandor was in complete agony. How in the seven hells would he be able to leave Casterly Rock, to leave _her_? He had made his decision the night before but now . . . looking at her seemingly fight for him to stay . . . It was simply more than he could bear.

“Is that it? Is that why you want to leave?” she had started again. “Well you’re not. You swore your shield to me, and I am not letting you walk away. In fact, I order you not to.”

Sandor swung his legs over the side of the bed and made as if to rise but stopped. His thigh was hurting him like fuck and his head was still spinning. But even sitting, his nose was on the same level as Sansa’s and he brought in his face to hers so very close they almost touched.

His jaw was clenching hard, the burnt side of his face almost twitching in his anger. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he said through gritted teeth.

Sansa’s eyebrows knit together and she showed him her perfect white teeth.

“Yes, I can,” she hissed. “I forbid you to leave.”

“You forbid me?” Sandor was incredulous. Just like a highborn little lady, ordering him around. Then he snorted loudly before his gaze fixed on her face. A sudden calmness unexpectedly washed over him. “You cannot forbid me Sansa. I can do as I very well please. And what pleases me now, _My Lady_ , is to leave Casterly Rock and you behind.”

Sansa said nothing in return, so Sandor stopped talking and stared at her, his gaze another massive glare. Her cheeks were red, her blue-eyes blazing with cold fury. Her red hair was like a flaming halo around her head—the effect nicely amplified by the warm golden glow exuded from the burning hearth behind her. _She looks just like a fucking fiery goddess_ , he thought wildly. Without thinking, Sandor’s right hand shot out and he grabbed her roughly by the arm, yanking her against him. He opened his legs and his thighs clenched hard against her, keeping  her firmly in his grasp. She cried out before he pressed his lips almost cruelly against hers.

She fought against him, small fists beating like tiny hail pellets against his powerful chest, but as she struggled, her soft mouth opened underneath his and her tongue darted into his mouth, surprising him. Her struggles weaned just as she kissed him back passionately, and in no time her arms were around his neck and she had pressed herself against him so tightly there were no space between their bodies.

“Oh,” Sansa exclaimed softly against his mouth and her closed eyelids fluttered open.

Against his bloody will, his cock had begun to harden painfully beneath the laces of his breeches, straining against them, and his balls started to ache and Sandor knew that Sansa had felt it too, so tightly they were pressed together. Her right hand untangled itself from around his neck and she slid it slowly with no hesitation whatsoever down along the length of his torso, to finally rest it lightly against the stiffening bulge down his front.

Sandor gasped and groaned when the little bird’s soft, warm hand started rubbing him over his clothes. Her palm created a wonderful, exciting friction alongside his hard length as she moved it up and down. She applied more pressure at its tip, before pressing down on it as she rubbed her palm down to the root of him and brushed over his hardening balls, cupping them gently in her hand, and slightly squeezing them with long slender fingers—which sent shivers down his spine—before her hand travelled up again.

Sansa’s breath was now ragged against his mouth, and Sandor parted from her long enough to give her a lust-filled look, which she answered in kind, before his mouth claimed hers again. This time the press of his lips was softer on hers as his tongue parted them gently to touch the tip of hers tentatively. She tasted so very sweet, he thought; of lemoncakes and cinnamon and even faintly of wine.

His own breath was coming in short, and he could now feel moisture seeping through the fabric of his breeches which were now clinging to his cockhead. The hum-drum of his heartbeat was also shooting up and down his swollen member in pulsing waves, making his balls ache with blinding need but sending sweet pleasure tingling through his body.

This was when Sandor gathered himself enough to try and push Sansa away from him. But to his surprise, she resisted.

“Sansa. No . . . please, what are you doing? Don’t- don’t play with me.”

She pressed herself against him, hard, her hand still working at his stiff length quickly. Fuck him, but it felt incredibly good—he was just too excited despite the wine—and he couldn’t help the buck of his hips against her warm hand, regardless of the little voice inside his mind telling him he shouldn’t let Sansa pleasure him this way . . . or any other way, for that matter.

“I am doing what I want to do, Sandor. I want you. I can’t help myself,” she said in a soft voice. Her eyes were glittering in the semi-darkness of the room. “You are always with me. You are in my thoughts, in my dreams, every night—even if I often wished you were not. No matter how much I truly love Jaime, because I do love him, I do!” Her voice had pitched a little higher but then it became almost a whisper. “But I also love you, too.” She knit her brows together at this admission. Then she smiled slightly at him, and her eyes took on a glazed, dreamy look. “Each morning, I wake up wet and aching . . . for you. When you are near me, I feel a jolt of lightening course through my body and I tremble every time we touch—even if it is only in passing, a single brush of your hand on my arms or on my back—do you even realize that you do that?—or when we walk side-by-side and my shoulder brushes your arm . . .” she gave a soft laugh then. “Sometimes, I even try letting the side of my breast brush against you instead of my shoulder . . .” She suddenly blushed at this revelation whilst she had increased the speed and pressure of her hand against his painfully hard and throbbing cock.

Sandor swallowed hard. “Aye . . . I noticed you were doing that, little bird,” he admitted grudgingly. “But . . . the _Kingslayer_ , Jaime. You cannot have us both.” He was trying to sound rough and angry but his voice was now quite hoarse and Sandor was panting heavily, despite himself, as Sansa kept on pleasuring him. He felt himself to be on the edge. _No turning back now_ , he thought wildly. So he simply let go, and mumbled “harder” through gritted teeth. Sansa wordlessly obliged and rubbed his cock harder, faster. Her own breathing had hitched higher to match his and her cheeks were red, her luscious lips parted in want, her blue eyes dark with arousal. She peered intently at him, and Sandor became dimly aware she was gaging his response to what she was doing to him. Well, he was bloody well responding quite eagerly, was he not? Or at least his traitor body was. After a few more firm strokes of her palm over his throbbing length, and a few more jerks of his hips into her hand, he felt a warm dampness seep through his breeches as he finally released in a loud groan.

His eyelids fluttered as his climax ran through him, his cock pulsing hard as his seed left him in hot spurts, making his toes curl against the flagstone floor whilst he shuddered in complete unadulterated bliss. His head was bent downward, his hair falling limply over his half-scarred features. He was breathing heavily in the wake of his pleasure. Pleasure his little bird had just given him. Seven bleeding hells, what did he just let her do?

Sandor felt panic rise through him. But whatever Sandor was thinking, Sansa was now answering his question, as if she had not just brought him off like a bloody maiden. Her hand was still fluttering over his softening cock and his damp breeches.

“I do love Jaime, Sandor, but I also need him and Casterly Rock so I can retake the north and Winterfell. My great-uncle the Blackfish and my uncle Edmure and Riverrun alone are not enough to help me achieve that goal. There are the Iron Born and Stannis to consider. As for you . . . even if I married you instead of Jaime, how could you help me retake my home?”

 _I would kill them all, for you,_ was Sandor’s thought. But he just stared at her, silent.

“No matter,” she waved a hand dismissively. Then Sansa sighed before continuing with a rueful little smile. “Jaime has given me permission to use you as I see fit, has he not?” She sounded breathless, but her tone was firm, brooking no argument.

“Sansa,” he growled, with a hint of danger in his tone. She stopped was she was doing and looked him deep in the eyes. “I don’t want that,” he added. “So you’re marrying Jaime both for love and political reasons. Because you want Winterfell back.”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to stay on at the Rock and be your lover?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see that working, little bird. For once, Jaime will kill me, then he will kill you.”

“No, he won’t. He said I could have you if I wished it so. And I wish it so.”

“Well I don’t!” He snarled at her, brushing her hands away. He unlaced his breeches, grabbed at the coverlets and cleaned himself up summarily.

He noticed she was staring at him silently. “I . . . am myself, must you know,” she suddenly said, interrupting him. “None of us is dreaming. This is real.”

“Yes, this is real. A bit too real, might be. Just like when we fucked, Sansa. It was real. For me, it was. But why did you just do this?” He hissed. Sandor had reached for her arms and he was now holding both of Sansa’s hands in a tight grip around her slender wrists. “I am not one of your stupid little dolls for you to play with.” Sandor recalled the ugly thing Sansa had been clutching in her hands the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, when he had gone to her chambers and offered to take her away with him. Away from the Lannisters and King’s Landing. An offer she had refused, breaking his heart into a million tiny little pieces as he turned his back on her and left her behind.

She struggled against him slightly, twisting and pulling before giving up. He simply was too strong. Her breathing had hitched once more, and Sandor could see the swell of her teats rising up and down quickly, making out the hardened nipples beneath the cloth. But then she seemed to settle herself and she heaved a deep sigh.

She wriggled one last time against him and Sandor finally released her wrists. Sansa rubbed them slightly before glaring at him. Then her gaze softened, and Sandor could see the turmoil behind her eyes. A turmoil no doubt matched by his own.

Sansa loved Jaime, but then, she loved him too, did she not? That much Sandor was certain of. Elsewise, he wanted the little bird. Fuck him into all the seven bloody buggering hells, but he loved her. But in the end, she had chosen Jaime over him. _Ser Jaime and the might of Casterly Rock_ , he reminded himself— _as well as thousands of the Rock’s Red Cloaks. What would you have brought her, dog? Nothing but a square keep, no men to speak of, your sword and your love._ The bitter knowledge actually hurt him more profoundly than he would have thought possible. However, it was more than simply bruised feelings. Seven hells, he knew he could take her if he wanted to. But no. It was more than that. He wanted her to come willing into his bed. Willing, but also a free woman. And Sansa Stark was no longer free; she was to be married to Jaime Lannister.

Sandor let his hands drop limply to his sides, laying them over the feather mattress. And for the first time, he felt as vulnerable and afraid as he had been when the Blackwater was lit with the green haze of the burning wildfire.

In the darkening room of Sandor’s bedchamber, there was a blinding flash of perfect white teeth. “You ask me why I did this? It’s really simple, Sandor. I did this because you are mine,” Sansa finally answered, and she left his bedchamber whilst he stared at her back in complete astonishment.

*****

Sandor was busying himself in Stranger’s stall, feeding his black courser hay, along with a few golden apples ripe with the last warm rays of the autumn sun. He’d snatched them from the Rock’s bountiful hothouse orchards and was giving them to Stranger by way of a silent apology for not having been there as often as he should. At first, Stranger had whinnied loudly—expressing his great displeasure at Sandor by trying to bite him—and had stamped his hooves on the stall’s floor, snorting vociferously. But after Sandor calmingly coaxed him with soothing words, Stranger had finally let Sandor stroke his forehead and muzzle. At present, his fierce horse’s ears flickered and were raised in apparent happiness at his master’s presence.

His young squire Benjen had already brushed Stranger’s coat to a very fine sheen—if he could say so himself, though reluctantly—and had combed mane and tail, furiously unravelling the tangles with the patience of a holy brother. Benjen and Stranger were apparently becoming fast friends, to Sandor’s complete and utter annoyance. However, he had to give credit to the boy for being stubborn enough to even attempt to get Stranger to even _tolerate_ him in the first place, without killing him first.

Sandor breathed in slowly, inhaling the pungent smell of horseflesh, hay and manure. He had desperately needed to clear his mind after his . . . _encounter_ with Sansa in his bedchamber the previous day; trying to make heads or tails of her strange behavior. _Warg_. She’d said before. She felt deeply connected to him. Just as he profoundly felt connected to her, too. And it was driving him mad. _What would the Elder Brother say?_ Sandor mulled this over in his mind thoughtfully, before he snorted at the thought. _He’d say now would be the time for me to leave, that’s what._ And he would be right, Sandor knew that well enough. That was why he had to leave Casterly Rock. Leave the woman he loved with all his damned bloody soul behind. Leave her for the arms of Jaime Lannister. Because even though Sansa Stark had told him in no uncertain words that _he_ was _hers_ , he knew perfectly well that _she_ wasn’t _his_.

Sandor’s train of thought was thankfully interrupted by sudden movement to his right side. Just at the edge of Sandor’s peripheral vision, his squire Benjen was sitting on a wooden crate in the corner of the stable, a mere few feet away from Sandor and Stranger. The boy stood there with his long, lanky legs dangling over the front of the crate. His clinging linen shirt and woolen breeches were not much to look at; but at least they were clean. Since arriving at Casterly Rock, the boy had been well-fed and had lost a bit of that gaunt look he’d had when Sandor had first met him at the Inn of the Kneeling Man.

Benjen gave him a huge grin before Sandor turned his back again on the kid. The former Hound became painfully aware of the young boy’s gaze burning a hole through his back.

“What?” he rasped in what he hoped sounded like complete annoyance.

“Are you really leaving, S- Sandor, m’lord.”

Sandor sighed in sheer exasperation before he shot a murderous glare at his young squire. “I told you, _boy_ , I’m no fucking ser and I’m no lord either. Will you finally get that into that thick skull of yours?”

He glanced behind him and saw that Benjen had lowered his eyes to the ground as red rose up his cheeks and went squarely to the tips of his ears. Despite the rebuke, the boy was undeterred.

“But you are going? Where will you go? Will you go to Dorne? Will you seek vengeance for your brother? Will you fight the Prince of Dorne?”

Sandor stared at his squire crossly, mouth twisting. How in the bloody hells did he know all that already? Mmpppff. Castle gossip, of course.

Sandor opened his mouth to answer his squire then closed it. Seeing the look of hope on the young boy’s earnest face, Sandor opened it again.

“No, I am not going to Dorne.” He was not stupid enough to walk into that nest of vipers, the lot of them. And he was not going back to the Quiet Isle, of that Sandor was most certain. Not for him the life of a holy buggering brother. Not for him shoveling dirt and heaving dead bodies into the cold, hard ground.

“Then where will you go?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Sandor replied thoughtfully. “North might be. Maybe.”

“North where?”

“Look, _boy_ , I don’t know where I’m going. I just know that I am.”

Sandor saw Benjen hesitate for a second before this one gathered his courage and said “When are we leaving?”

“We? What makes you think I’m taking you with me?” Sandor hadn’t planned on taking Benjen with him. He wanted to leave the boy at the Rock, where he would be safe and warm and fed and have a nice enough life; not live in the brambles and bushes and on the cold hard ground amidst the winter snows.

“I’m your squire! M’lor-S-Sandor.” Benjen looked down once more at his feet, as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.

Sandor sighed deeply again before answering. “We’re leaving as soon as Ser Jaime and the Lady Sansa are married, which I am told, should be in the coming week.”

“Oh,” his young squire said.

“Oh, what?” Sandor felt a small hint of anger well up inside of him.

“It- it’s nothing, m’lord. It’s just that—”

Sandor gave up trying to correct Benjen calling him ‘m’lord.’

“It’s just what?” he prodded gruffly. What _did_ the castle gossip say, exactly? Sandor wanted to know, and he wanted names. He was going to kill a few of them.

Benjen raised his chin up to look him shyly in the eyes. Deep grey eyes meeting Sandor’s. Face red. “It’s just that . . . well . . . ” He sighed heavily. “They say . . . they say that you love the Lady Sansa, m’lord.”

Sandor gaped at his squire in a thoroughly unbecoming manner. Fuck them all the lot of them, he thought. Still, he should not be surprised. Tongues are always bound to wag in a castle or in any other place, for that matter, be it a keep, a village or a town. It made no difference. Besides, it was no hair off his arse whatever people thought of him—he never gave a fuck.

His mouth drew into a tight line and his jaw clenched. “They say that, do they? And who are _they_?”

“Everyone at the Rock, m’lord.”

“ _Everyone_? And how would they all know such a thing?”

Benjen looked away again, his thin face was suffused with red. Sandor knew the boy was most probably mightily embarrassed by this discussion. And scared. Sandor, on the other hand, was beginning to find this all positively amusing, despite himself.

Sandor crossed his arms in front of his chest and shifted his weight to his good leg. “Well,” he rasped. “I’m waiting, boy.”

“I believe . . . it is to say . . . I have heard that . . .” the boy was sputtering. He clearly did not know how to tell Sandor how he knew about that.

“Let me take a guess. Sansa’s lady’s maid told you.”

“How . . . how did you know?” Benjen looked crestfallen.

Sandor barked out a loud laugh.

“I know very well you’ve been keeping company with her; you’re looking to fuck the little wench, aren’t you, boy?”

Benjen suddenly paled at the word ‘fuck.’ Sandor had simply forgotten just how very young his young squire was. _The boy has probably never fucked anything in his life but his own hand._

Sandor could not tell what made him do it—though the thought of Sansa came to mind, leaving an acrid aftertaste in his mouth, much like bile—but he reached a hand and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. The gesture startled them both, making Sandor remove his hand as quickly as he had extended it.

“If you’re keen on the girl, you should let her know and be quick about it.”

“Oh? Yes. Hum. Why?”

Sandor sighed heavily again. Seven bleeding hells! The boy was thick. “Because we are leaving soon?”

“Oh! Yes!” Benjen reddened in pleasure.

“Now, about the girl.”

*****

Despite their bedchambers being next to each other, Sandor managed to spend the next few days avoiding the little bird entirely—which was no small feat considering he _felt_ as if she were almost everywhere at once, which was completely maddening. After she had shamelessly brought him off like a maiden fresh for the plucking, and not being thrilled at the possibility of the event repeating itself, Sandor now kept his room door safely locked behind him as soon as he would enter his bedchamber. Sandor bloody well knew he would be unable to resist and stop Sansa if she hoped to repeat what she had done to him—because he would powerless as a fly caught in the fine silk threads of a spider-web to stop her. Worse, he knew he would not even attempt to try.

He had asked Jaime to find a suitable candidate to relieve him as Sansa’s sworn shield. The Kingslayer had looked at him queerly for a moment, had opened his mouth to say something, had closed it and had not pressed the matter; probably believing that Sandor’s reasons were his brother’s death, and the fact that he wanted to leave the little bird’s side as soon as she was married to him. Still, he had seen the gleam of curiosity that lit Jaime’s blue eyes, but Sandor had merely shrugged and had offered no explanation as to his reasons.

For her part, Sansa had said nothing. She had not asked Jaime any questions as far as Sandor knew—nor had she tried to rush into his bedchamber unbidden when she noticed the Red Cloak that temporarily relieved him as her new sworn shield—and Sandor was glad of it.

Casterly Rock was now abuzz with activity as the wedding preparations were going roundly. Sandor felt out of place, and a whole seemed to have formed where his heart had once been in his chest. _But I don’t have a heart, don’t I? I’m a stone cold killer, a dog, unfit to become the little bird’s husband_. So he busied himself with making preparations for his and Benjen’s imminent departure. And when evening came, he would make his slow way to a small whorehouse on the outskirts of Lannisport called the Blue Swan.

Sandor had taken notice of the pretty red haired girl there, with voluptuous hips and an ample bosom. But instead of buying time to fuck her, Sandor just stood there, drinking. At first, the woman who was in charge of the whorehouse had tried to get him to leave—she complained that he was scaring the customers away with his sullen look and burnt features—but the murderous glare he gave her both frightened and deterred her from repeating the request.

Sandor now was pleasantly whiling away the night with a sufficient provision of Dornish sour red when a long shadow fell over him.

“What are you doing, Sandor?”

The question took him out of his drunken reverie and he barely glanced up from his wine goblet to look at the man who had spoken to him.

Sandor met blue eyes framed by neatly combed golden hair shot through with gray, and a neat greying beard.

“Jaime,” he mumbled in reluctant acknowledgement. He went back to sipping his wine, letting it slide down his throat like tendrils of fire. “Getting piss drunk. Not that’s any of your business.”

Jaime Lannister looked down on him with obvious concern before he glanced at the room around him. The Blue Swan was not the most luxurious whorehouse in Lannisport—it was nothing like those expensive brothels the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, had been so fond of visiting—but it was neat and well-kept and the whores looked well fed and well treated enough. Jaime was neatly dressed, as befitted his status as the Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West. But Sandor guessed it was mayhap one of very few times the Kingslayer had set foot in a place such as this. After all, he had been faithful to his twin Cersei but his brother the Imp had liked whores. Until the little bird, that was.

The Kingslayer pulled up a nearby wooden stool and sat down across the table from Sandor.

“And what are _you_ doing here, Jaime?”

Jaime pointedly ignored his question and signaled for a cup and some more wine to be brought to him. In just a few seconds, a stone goblet and another jug of wine was deposited between Sandor and Jaime as if by magic.

Sandor sipped the wine from his own cup, waiting for the other man to finally answer him. He saw Jaime’s gaze rest on the pretty red head who was busy entertaining a client, a fat short man with a bulbous nose and slicked back thin grey hair. He had the look of a prosperous merchant in his fine velvet clothes. Sandor snorted.

“Pretty whore,” Jaime said simply as he waved toward the girl who was now laughing loudly at some insipid comment the merchant had just offered. He had a look of amusement over his handsome countenance as his gaze swept appreciatively over the girl.

“What do you want Jaime?” Sandor growled low in his throat. He was now glaring at the man sitting in front of him.

The amusement left Jaime’s features and he became serious at once.

“I am here to talk about Sansa.”


	21. Sansa/Jaime/Sandor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's wedding to Jaime is fast approaching and Sansa, Jaime and Sandor try to deal with the upcoming nuptials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank my new Beta [Bojangley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Bojangley/pseuds/Bojangley) for her invaluable help with this new chapter. I'd also like to thank my friend [Caroh99](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Caroh99/pseuds/Caroh99) for her help and support.

**Sansa/Jaime/Sandor**

Sansa Stark was absolutely petrified.

As she stared at her pale reflection in the looking glass, she noticed the dark smudges shadowing her eyes. She had not slept well again but how could she, when her nights were filled with lurid dreams of both Jaime and Sandor that more often than not left her miserably wet and aching in the mornings? When she had perversely refused to alleviate the need for release with a ferocity that always left her staggering?

Sansa’s right hand rose slowly, and she slightly pressed her palm against her chest where she could feel her pulse beat against the hollow of her neck, steady and strong beneath light fingertips. For one fleeting moment, her mind turned to those vivid dreams and she felt a deep flush suffuse her cheeks, heat creeping inexorably up as her heart started hammering a wild tattoo against her rib cage. _Please, do not let Jeyne notice,_ Sansa fervently hoped as she closed her eyes in memory, letting the arousing images flood her mind.

In the dream she’d had the night before, just before her waking moment; that fleeting instant before one’s consciousness floated back to the surface like a bubble from the deep grasp of sleep, she had dreamed of Jaime and Sandor both in her large feather bed.

Sansa minutely recalled their writhing forms, in the throes of lust and passion as they both took her in turn, rolling her between them; between their hard, muscular, heaving bodies. One fair, one dark. Their arms and limbs a jumble amidst the coverlets and bed sheets. She recollected their hardness inside her, filling her deeply in turn and then the sudden emptiness that made her feel so utterly lost she wanted to weep, before the other man’s member filled her up again and she sobbed in relief.

Sansa blushed furiously and her eyes flew open. _A lady should not think upon these things_ , she chided herself. So with a slight shake of the head, she forced herself to get these persistent, unladylike thoughts out of her mind and think upon more . . . cheerful things.

Today was her wedding day after all, and Sansa would finally be wed to Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, the infamous Kingslayer.

She was excited, anxious, ecstatic, and terrified all at once.

She was eager to wed Jaime, and not only because she loved him with all her heart—even if another part of her ferociously acknowledged that she also loved Sandor Clegane with every single fiber of her being—but because she also _needed_ him like the very air she breathed. The fact that a union with the golden Lion of Lannister might provide her with the best chance she would ever have to retake Winterfell felt at present almost irrelevant to her.

At the thought of her home, Sansa felt the Stark wolf rise within her and her fists curled at her sides as a wave of pure searing grief crashed through her, almost shattering her like glass too brittle against stone when she thought of all she had lost: _Lady, Father, Mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya_. Jon, only Jon remained, her father’s bastard. Her half-brother.

She had had Maester Aurane dispatch her letters to Jon by raven to Castle Black weeks ago but had heard nothing back. _He probably doesn’t want to have anything to do with me_ , Sansa thought bitterly. _And no wonder; I was such a horrible sister to him. I was not all that a lady should be._ The thought made her grieve anew for everything she had lost—all for the bitter, shattered promise of a golden prince that had turned out to be a monster.

Sansa fidgeted on her seat as her maid Jeyne struggled to untangle a long auburn lock that gleamed red as fire in the light of the tallow candles, stubbornly brushing it to smooth silkiness.

 _I must write to Jon again. I shall beg for his forgiveness_ , she decided, lifting her chin defiantly at her reflection. “I am so sorry, brother,” she breathed softly in a tone so low she knew Jeyne had not heard her. She wanted so very much to hug her knees to her but Sansa stayed resolutely still whilst her maid still fussed over her.

Sansa knew of the wild stories and rumors swirling around the Seven Kingdoms about her brother Jon. At first, she had heard that he had been made the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch—the youngest ever in the long order’s history—then that he had been killed by his own men, _treacherous_ men, and that he’d been stabbed repeatedly to the point of death, before he was miraculously brought back to life by Lord Stannis Baratheon’s Red Priestess, a woman of great beauty who had come from a mysterious place across the Narrow Sea—a Melissandre of Asshai who worshipped a god Sansa did not know called R’hllor, the Lord of Light.

Sansa shivered at the thought of this Lord of Light who could bring people back from the dead. _Like Mother_ . . .

She had also heard, though it pained her to hear it, that Lord Stannis had offered to make Jon Lord of Winterfell in exchange for taking Stannis’ cause as the rightful King of Westeros—by legitimizing the bastard Jon Snow as Jon Stark, the true son and heir of Lord Eddard Stark. Sansa did not want to believe those rumors. For if they were true, would she have to fight her brother? What would she do? Would she just be content that Jon was now the Lord of the home she loved so much? Was there any true need to marry Jaime now? Sansa curled her fists at her sides in defiance again.

 _Yes there is! I love Jaime and I will marry him! I have made my decision._ But deep down inside, a fleeting thought in the dark recesses of her mind made her think that were Jon to become Lord of Winterfell, she would also be free to marry Sandor Clegane _. It would not matter that he has no land, no title, no men . . ._

“Ouch!” the feeling of a sharp little pin stabbing her in the back of the neck brought Sansa back to the present and she blinked like an owl at her own reflection while her maid Jeyne fussed to and fro behind her, her fluttering hands styling and pinning Sansa’s long auburn locks in the court style. The pins were sticking into her scalp, making her flesh sting and chafe in some places, and she could feel her pulse thumping where her hair pulled tight over her temples.

“Sorry, m’lady,” Jeyne mumbled over her head through closed lips, her mouth full of pins. Sansa thought her maid looked like a small round porcupine and it was all she could do not to laugh.

The day was grey and cold and it was cool in her bedchamber despite the roaring fire in the hearth and she shivered slightly. She was dressed only in her silken shift and she could see her nipples poking in hard little buds through the light fabric. Her hands went automatically to her breasts, fingers under her armpits and she gazed covertly over her shoulder to look at her wedding dress. It lay on her feather bed, the loose sleeves spread out like the wings of a golden butterfly. It was a beautiful gown that Jaime had ordered made for her from the best seamstresses in all of Lannisport, of gold silk embroidered with the lions of House Lannister and the direwolves of House Stark. Sansa marveled that such a dress had been made in so short a time. She had stared wonderingly at the intricate embroidery found on the bodice and the sleeves, admiring its beauty and the high level of craftsmanship involved.  

Hair finally done, Jeyne was now applying a slight rosy blush to her cheeks, and she reddened her lips with ripe crushed gooseberries by gently smearing them with the tip of her index finger. Then she helped Sansa slide into her dress, and she tied the gown with the silk lacing at the back.

Glancing once more into her looking glass, Sansa took another long look at her reflection and thought she looked very pretty indeed. _I look like a queen,_ she thought, squaring her shoulders and standing to her full height—she _was_ a very tall girl after all— _Jaime will like it_. But the nervousness had not left her; in fact, she was even more nervous—and scared—than ever. Her hands went instinctively to her stomach and she felt the aching emptiness there, where her child would now have been, her belly full and swelling with life. Her eyes began to sting and tears welled into her eyes, threatening to spill over and roll onto her cheeks. _No, no, no_ , she thought. _Do not think of this. You will have other babies. Jaime will give me babies. Lots of blond little boys and red-haired little girls who will run through the halls of Casterly Rock and Winterfell._ The thought comforted her somewhat and she clung desperately to it, and, after a short while, the tears stopped coming.

She brushed her hands nervously over her skirts, smoothing them out, and turned sidewise. Never in a million years would she have thought ever to marry a Lannister. All through her captivity in King’s Landing, and during her ordeal at the hands of Joffrey, she had prayed and prayed to the old gods and the new for her own Florian to come and rescue her, to take her away from the horrors of her daily life. Away from the hated Lannisters. And her Florian had come, in the very guise of a Lannister himself; and there she was, in Casterly Rock, about to marry Ser Jaime . . . _Joffrey_ ’s father.

Sansa felt her heart rise dangerously in her throat for one fleeting moment at the thought of Joffrey, faintly tasting bile. She laid her hand on her throat, feeling her heart beat there more quickly. She took a long, deep breath, and let it out slowly. She had no need to be afraid. Jaime loved her just as much as she loved him. Her father had once promised to find her a man that would be gentle and strong and Jaime was all that to her and more. And yet . . . yet, her mind also turned to Sandor Clegane. To her sworn shield. To the man soon poised to leave her behind once more, perhaps, this time, forever.

Now was not the time to think of him, either, she decided firmly. Sandor would be at the wedding today, acting as her sworn shield for one last time. She knew he would be leaving in the morning and though she felt shatteringly sad, she pressed her lips together in a determined line.

Sansa did not want him to leave. In fact, she had ordered him not to. But the former Lannister Hound had remained deaf as an old dog to her pleas and to any argument she had made to keep him by her side and worse, he had scoffed at her! He had growled and had taunted her almost cruelly, as he had been in the habit of doing in King’s Landing! But she knew he was only lashing out. She knew the pain it caused him to see her marry Jaime. She understood Sandor’s reasons for leaving, but she selfishly wanted him to remain with her.

But no. He would go. He would leave her behind as he had done the night the Blackwater burned.

A small sob almost escaped her throat, catching, and her maid looked up at her, momentarily startled. Then a frown formed between Jeyne's slender brows. She said nothing but Sansa realized in that precise moment that Jeyne no doubt knew about her and Sandor. She was clever, Jeyne was, and everyone at the Rock must know as well, did they not? Her great-uncle the Blackfish had told her so, had warned her not to lay with Clegane again and she had not, though all her instincts wanted to hurl herself at him.

Ser Brynden Tully would also be at the wedding. Jaime had finally released him from his forced captivity and his presence would be a balm to her, since she had no real close family left, even though she barely knew her mother’s uncle. As her closest kin, her great-uncle would be the one to give her away to Jaime.

With Sandor standing close behind her.

Sansa knew he would be standing tall and strong and so terribly hurting, and the only thing she could do was to offer him love and comfort for one last time . . .

Sansa smoothed the front her gown again and turned back on her heels a little, watching her reflection move in the looking glass, seeing the gold shimmer in the light of the tallow candles. She bravely put on a smile. It was at first tentative, then it split warmly at the thought of Jaime. She was happy, wasn’t she? As much as she should be, she gathered.

And as long as she did not think too much of Sandor Clegane.

*****

Jaime Lannister’s insides were churning.

The Kingslayer paced the length of his solar to and fro and ran a nervous hand through his hair.  His squire, young Podrick Payne, was standing behind him solemnly silent. Pod never spoke much. However, the boy was as loyal as he was quiet, and Jaime fervently thanked his younger brother Tyrion for the gift of him before they had departed King’s Landing.

“Where are you, little brother?” Jaime softly asked under his breath for the thousandth time, and for the thousandth time received no answer. He sighed. Searches for Tyrion both in Westeros and Essos had been fruitless, but Jaime was not giving up hope of finding him and had tasked Maester Aurane with sending ravens all over the Seven Kingdoms again and again and again. Someone somewhere was bound to know something.

An urgent itch beneath the elbow of his right arm stopped him mid-step with his good hand still entangled in his hair. Jaime tilted his face down to stare absent-mindedly at the golden hand that lay stiff and hard and cold against his thigh as he scratched himself absently. He saw the metal gleam in the light of the burning hearth and the tallow candles lighted against the deepening dusk, flickering against the light cold breeze seeping through closed window panes, and thought longingly of the flesh and blood appendage he had lost during that fateful and bloody fight against the Black Wolves and their massive Dothraki. Jaime had yet to discover the identity of their second leader but he felt confident he would find him; just like he knew he would find his brother Tyrion.

Ser Jaime Lannister’s deep, dark musings were suddenly shattered by the alarmed cry of a bird taking flight near the window, startling him back into the present moment. “Winter is coming,” said Jaime softly. It surprised him that some of the local bird species had not yet headed south toward the warmer climates of Dorne—or even  those of the Summer Isles—for the promise of abundant and plentiful food—what with the cold sweeping slowly but inexorably down from the north, freezing everything in the wake of its icy, grasping claws.

Jaime set his jaw and fixed his gaze over to the window and sighed deeply before shaking his head slightly. “The Seven help me. Get a grip on yourself. You are Ser Jaime Lannister, the fucking Kingslayer, the one who put an end to the madness of King Aerys, saving more than fifty-thousand lives in the doing! I am the bloody Golden Lion of House Lannister and not a worthless boy!” he paused for an instant before continuing: “There are no other men like me,” Jaime told himself firmly under his breath. “ _Only_ me.”

He rubbed his jaw with his good hand, the bristles of his beard tickling his fingers. Sansa had said she liked the way he looked with the beard, and so he had kept it. Somehow, Jaime also felt it made him look more . . . _respectable_. He felt the sudden urge to laugh but his burst of hilarity was cut short when the beard also brought back a memory he’d preferred would have stayed buried forever.

Jaime recalled—quite vividly—when he had been the Young Wolf’s prisoner: Robb Stark of Winterfell, Ned Stark’s eldest son and heir, and the King in the North. A young man barely out of boyhood and taking his first bumbling but not so awkward steps into manhood and a leader of men both.

Held in iron shackles, and kept in a cage like a savage beast, Jaime had been cold, grimy and hungry almost to the point of starvation. The young king would often come to his cage accompanied by his massive direwolf Grey Wind—privately scaring the shit out of him though he had tried so very, very hard to hide his fear of the unholy creature—to go and gloat at him.

Jaime had burned like a thousand suns with hatred and loathing for Robb Stark; so much so that part of him had actually rejoiced when news of his horrible death at the hands of the Freys (under his own father, Lord Tywin Lannister’s orders, Jaime had no doubt) spread like wildfire over the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. They—the boy king, his mother the Lady Catelyn, the boy’s wife, a certain Talisa, as well as his hellish beast—had been savagely murdered at the Twins during Lord Edmure Tully’s wedding to one of the Frey girls . . .

His own wedding to Sansa Stark was a mere few hours away, and Jaime could hear the hum and drum of activity all around him; even through the Rock’s thick stone walls. Every servant in the castle was busy making certain everything was ready and perfect for the upcoming ceremony and the subsequent banquet. Even his own bedchamber was being readied for the bedding—even though it was no great secret that their lord was bedding the Stark girl, and quite frequently at that. Nor was Sansa’s own . . . brief _liaison_ with her sworn shield, and that fact irked him more than he could say—no matter that he’d given his blessing to . . . that.

Jaime felt the sudden urge to break something and he landed his left fist down hard over his solid oak, work table with a crash. The blinding pain that shot through his entire arm and up to his shoulder jarred him; but he suddenly felt the better for it—despite the bruised and bleeding knuckles. That would have to be cleaned up, he thought dazedly and, mayhap, even bound before the wedding. Jaime Lannister suddenly felt like a proper fool.

“Go fetch Maester Aurane,” Jaime said firmly to Pod who was soundlessly staring at him with big round eyes. He bowed quickly and promptly turned to go. Jaime stared as the solid wooden door closed soundlessly behind his departing squire.

After long moments that seemed like an eternity, Jaime blinked and sighed loudly. He reached for the jug of wine lying nearby and took a deep swallow of the wonderful liquid directly from it, not even bothering with a cup. It went down his throat in a fiery trail, pleasantly warming his stomach and his insides.

Marrying Sansa was right, it _felt_ right, Jaime told himself for the hundredth time. His uncle, Ser Kevan, had once more written from King's Landing, entreating him with utmost urgency that he not marry the Stark girl, that his resignation as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been tossed aside blatently and refused.

But Jaime did not care.

He wanted to wed Sansa and to have her stand by his side as his wife and the Lady of Casterly Rock. But the whole affair with Sandor was making him uneasy. Sansa had told him all, every encounter she’d had with the former Lannister Hound, few as they had been, and her dreams of him—making him want to strangle Clegane with all his might. She even told him of the warg theory Maester Aurane had explained to her. Still, even if Jaime had given his permission for Sansa to take Sandor into her bed, he found he did not like it one bit. Not one bit at all. And deep down he was glad that Sandor had ultimately decided to leave Casterly Rock and Sansa behind.

But tonight . . . well, tonight . . .

Jaime shook his head. He would not dwell upon tonight. Tonight would be his wedding gift to her. She had wanted nothing else, and he had promised Sansa. He _would_ do it. But the prospect was almost turning his insides into jelly. Was he going to be sick? Mayhap he was. Tonight would be the greatest test of his character and of his love for Eddard Stark’s daughter. _It cannot be worse than when I was forced to make love to Sansa for the very first time under duress by that little shit that was my son._ Jaime’s only good fist painfully clenched hard at his side at the thought of his hated, dead son. At least Tommen and Myrcella were good, loving, normal children, and Jaime had an inkling that Joffrey had been the Gods’ punishment for his and his twin’s many, many sins.

Jaime shook his head again. He would not think upon Cersei nor Joffrey again this night. He would push them both firmly at the back of his mind, in a deep, dark recess where he would not have to recall them to his memory. Even thoughts of both his Lord Father, Tywin Lannister, and his brother Tyrion would be buried deep.

He would think only of Sansa. His beloved. His heart and soul. His salvation.

Still, one last fleeting thought occurred to him and it was that Tyrion would have laughed himself silly at this turn of events.

Reaching for the jug of wine standing half-full on his work desk again, this time Jaime poured himself a cupful of the blessed golden liquid and, bringing it to his lips, drained it in one deep swallow.

*****

Sandor Clegane wanted to puke his guts out.

All his insides were tied into a knot and they felt to him as if they were being set on fire; it was all he could do not to heave the contents of his stomach onto the sweet-smelling rushes of the flagstone floor.

Sandor knew he should have left the Rock already, knew he shouldn’t still be here with the little bird merely a bedchamber away from him. He needed all the self-control he possessed to muster strength enough to stay away from her, no matter the power of this inexorable pull he always felt toward Sansa Stark. Seven hells but he _still_ dreamed of her and the dreams would always rouse him, making his cock hard and his balls ache, even against his bloody fucking will. Always he would reach for his stiff and throbbing length and stroke himself to a quick and empty release.

He sighed loudly in exasperation and made his way to the single window of his bedchamber. Snowflakes fell lazily from the grey sky above and onto the lashing waves down below. It was a cold bloody day at the Rock. A cold day for a wedding.

Even worse to Sandor was that he did not know what in the seven bloody hells had possessed him to acquiesce to Jaime fucking Lannister’s bloody mad request in the first place! But after the Lion had sought him out at the Blue Swan and had made his crazy proposition—Sansa’s crazy proposition, in truth—Sandor had wanted to punch the bloody Kingslayer in the face and turn his pretty golden head into a bloody pulp. Then he had wanted to laugh so hard it took all his strength and self-control (the Elder Brother _would_ have been proud, Sandor knew) not to do any of those things, even though all his warrior’s instincts and his rage screamed at him to do so, to let his anger and fury loose.

Instead, he had looked upon Jaime coldly whilst keeping his boiling temper in check and had swept his gaze contemptuously over the man sitting opposite him, his eyes going up and down Jaime before settling on the Kingslayer’s dark blue eyes. Sandor could see the turmoil behind them, like a flickering shadow or a dark cloud moving into a clear blue sky, and he knew it had taken everything out of the damn Lion to make this unusual and most shocking request—and, having lived with his evil fuck of a brother and the Lannisters for most his life, Sandor wasn’t so easily shocked.

“Until Sansa bloody Stark,” he mumbled beneath his breath. He knew the little bird had carved her name into his heart forever, in fire and blood and warm, searing flesh.

Every single fiber in his body had wanted to scream “No!” but in the end, and to his own deep shame and complete astonishment, it was a startling “Yes” that escaped lips tight with tension. It had shocked him even more so than Jaime, who, after long minutes spent in silence whilst gazing at Sandor, had then grimly nodded his head in acquiescence and, after taking one last cupful of wine, had left Sandor Clegane behind in a billowing of red cape.

Sandor had simply stood there, remaining for a long moment still as stone, with his right hand clasping the goblet of wine so hard he felt he would crush it. He then had sighed deeply and had shook his head, as if to tell himself it wasn’t real; _nothing_ was real, before reluctantly following Jaime out of the Blue Swan, with one last—almost longing—gaze at the pretty red-headed whore.

He then had made his slow way back into his bedchamber at the Rock, almost staggering wildly along the way by the end. He’d drunk too much wine at the whorehouse and after a time his wound had started to pain him again. There he had remained locked away from the world for a few days, drinking, sleeping, and drinking again before he had finally decided to leave the cramped space.

 _Before I go stark raving mad_ , he snorted.

The Stranger take him; he was a fearsome warrior after all! The fiercest and most feared in the whole of the bleeding Seven Kingdoms! Not a bloody love-sick drunkard, Sandor had decided.

Now, standing in the training yard fully armored with both fists clenched hard by his side, Sandor’s gaze swept contemptuously over the Rock’s Red Cloaks as some of the men stood about their daily training regimen. The wound in his thigh was thankfully no longer paining him as much, to his immense relief. Being injured and on the road was a dangerous, risky thing for a man such as himself—any man, for that matter. But now he felt he could walk almost normally and could twist his body the way a warrior’s body should work.

Walking nonchalantly—but slowly—into the courtyard, to the startled and suspicious glances of the men assembled there who then dropped their weapons—as well as their jaw—by their sides at sight of him, Sandor picked up one of the training swords with a low grunt and advanced in the middle of the yard. There, he started raining savage blow upon savage blow upon a deserted armored post quintain, wood splinters flying everywhere with each lunge, thrust and stab.

He felt the intensity of the gaze of the men all around him and knew that they feared him. Good, he thought. _Show them all that you’re still the Hound, show them that you are still the most fearsome and dangerous warrior in the whole of Westeros. Show them you could still crush them with one single hand wrapped tight around their fucking throats._

With a mighty roar that sounded deafening even to his own ears, and to his intense satisfaction, Sandor cleaved the quintain neatly in two from the upper left shoulder joint, right through the plated armor over padded boiled leather, toppling the upper half to the floor to the audible gasp of the men around him.

Then Sandor Clegane smiled.


End file.
